Holding my Son, hugging my Pop; my smiles shinier than my one crappy blazer
To Pain's Prosopoi, these two happy snapshots have been as Occam's razor
Showing the Son's implacable Saul is, to the Father, an Oedipal Freud
So only its Photons, not Protons, thus created are thus destroyed.
Again Light's limerence your photo pummels
& Love's immanence, quantum tunnels
Till, in Bedil's mirror, I teach to shave
Son, Barzakh's evanescent wave.
Prince! Tri-Vikrama or Akram Asura or howsoever now yclept
Fatherhood's facticity shames no founder of a sept!