Which of us understands our family?
Mothers believe they fathom sons and daughters;
No they do not; and never did. A tragedy.
Our hidden, arrant hearts are like the waters
Of sunless lakes beneath some mountain peak,
Home to blind fish, as yet unknown to science.
Oh, we can try, we can yearn, we can seek
To empathise; but the id is all defiance.
The streams that issue from the mountain’s side
Are plain enough. These we often mistake
For their source, sifting the clues they provide—
Fool’s errand! No mind may plumb a depthless lake.
  As for friends or lovers we thought we knew,
  Sweetheart, you can’t know me, I can’t know you.