Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of lifes
longing for itself.
They come through you, not from you,
And though they are with you, they belong not
to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but strive not
to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with
yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as
living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the
infinite, and he bends you with his might that the arrows
may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archers hand be
for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so
he loves the bow that is stable.
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