You are born to the Earth. Whether you believe it to be merely a test for the next world or wholly valuable in itself, you are born.
And it is no mean thing to be born. In your line are nobles, kings--for the blood mingles each generation, the blood spreads. In your line philosophers. In your line warriors. In your line heroes(; in your line villains). Always, always strength.
For you, little green-white-red-black growing thing, are born of survivors. Little sun-yellow one, you are born of those who saw the serpent, who fought the dragon, who ran swift', spoke well, lived.
A boy in one of our legends--for we still make legends, even should few think to call them that--is, simply, "The Boy Who Lived". He fights, and he wins, by power of love and bravery. What do you think you are, dear star-bright? What do you think your ancestors fought for?
We are pack and tribe. We are young and old, dark and bright, good and awful. We are we. When the world shakes, and there's nothing left to hold, a hand is there.
You are born of fight and fire and loss and love. You live, little dear one mine. Never forget.