Our souls are scarred with the struggles of successive births, and the process is recorded also by the wrinkles in our brains, by the lines in our faces.

Look at me and you will see that I have been born many times.
And my first self-birth happened, as I have told, that spring day of my early springs.

Therefore would I plant a rose on the green bank of the Polota, there to bloom in token of eternal life.
Eternal, divine life.

This is a tale of immortal life.

Should I be sitting here, chattering of my infantile adventures, if I did not know that I was speaking for thousands?
Should you be sitting there, attending to my chatter, while the world's work waits, if you did not know that I spoke also for you?
I might say "you" or "he" instead of "I." Or I might be silent, while you spoke for me and the rest, but for the accident that I was born with a pen in my hand, and you without.