Like the wrinkled face br of a newborn br and the emerging softness br of pink skin, br the not yet seeing eyes, br invisibly, br gray matter begins to br assert itself, br in silence, br yet the primal cry br deemed so essential br by the onlookers br and wellwishers, br piercing or timid, br as it may be, br only serves to announce, br to put on notice br the giant universe br that there is yet another br little professor, br inquisitive, a unicum br who stepped right into br the very midst of us br and our pettiness, br the warmongering of man br made so much a part of, br in shades of pleasant gray br and applauded by those men br whose image so deceptively reminds br of the belligerence br and falsetto voices br so characteristic of br the moneychangers, br those whose flaccid stems br have long since withered br on the sapless vines of desert hide, br soon they will smile, br upturned the corners br of fresh lips of optimism, br their pupils wide br and keen to change br what must be and so long is overdue. br The end not yet in sight br it takes a lifetime still br to paint a portrait br on a patient canvas br a mirage of sorts, br a mirror of futility br and sadness soon descends br like mist, unseen until the morn, br and yet, br he does not leave in style, br the cry has given way br to shallow breaths br until the reaper takes away br all vestiges of dignity.