A baby, they called him, the seed of youth.
They toiled and planted him in the field of Truth.
He strived for the perfection of his body and mind.
She wanted to mould him into their perfect kind.
Metamorphosis they called it, the development from birth,
And still they nourished him in the field of Truth.
Till one day in the spring of his life he suddenly became aware,
As he looked around and noticed that the Truth was no longer there.

He looked down seeing only the dark weeds and soil
And with his Fathers plough in his hands, he began to toil.
Until endurance became the pain, he knelt down and was quenched by Gods gift of Rain.
He did not move from his field of Truth for endurance and strength was the key to his youth.

Soon the Autumn would slowly unfold into the Winter where he experienced the bitter and cold. Yet still he remembered his field of Truth where he had planted and toiled for "His Youth"
Now in the winter of his life he began to age and realized he had reached his last human stage.

His hands were his Youth
And God his Truth
His field was nourished with care.
His last words were ploughed into the soil
"The Truth is Always there"