Listen to me, my dear son, the firstborn of my seeds,
Listen to the wisdom of your father,
The husband of your joyous mother.
There are many seeds planted in a garden,
However, not all of them sprout out.
Among those that germinate,
The calamities of nature choke others.
Those that survive, the sun scorches.
Throughout all this, the planter prunes,
He watches until the harvest is ready.
Listen to me, my son, the counsel of a father,
The word of his rebukes, the testimony of his rod.
It is a way for a planter to nurture his harvest.
Listen to me, my son, harvests fill a barn
When the planter tends his garden well.
A full barn brings satisfaction, like a fulfilled womb.
When discipline resonates with knowledge,
Listen to me, my son, my counsel for you
It is a love that prepares your life
Through the art of pruning,
A tree, in a maintained yard, yields fruit.
An ignorance of discipline is a worm in a pod.
Listen carefully, my son, with two eyes,
When one eye is closed, it is accurate in targeting
However, the distance of sight reduces in length.
Never rely on the target, but think about the distance,
Where life would take you without a father’s wisdom.
Never undermine the weakness of your father’s wisdom
That shapes the ladder of your future eternity.
Ayella John Bosco, Writer/Critic/Teacher
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