Would it have been me
If another month had passed
While the unblessed life crumbled
And was chased out of the womb
By a rhythmic purging rite,
And the masculine half
Of another moment
Happened to melt into
The maternal seed
Of a month later?

Is my being
A purely coincidental affair
That had miraculously survived
The onslaught of non-being,
In whose maw had perished
Hundreds of my siblings?

If that is so
Why did my parents pretend
The sole purpose
Of their matrimonial unity
Was to perpetuate their essence
In no one else but me?
Why did they nurture my life
With the prime of theirs
Till I became convinced
I alone had won their heart
Out of the rebuffed hundreds?

Why do I feel
The presence of something
Much more than
A chance aggregate of matter;
A being that emanated
Not as a byproduct
In the making of flesh and blood,
But one that was meant to be
And whose inauguration
Called for all the events
That had taken place
Till I was born?