- Song of Childness -             

While the child was a child,

ti walked with arms hanging,

wished the brook to be a river,

the river to be a torrent,

and this puddle – the sea.

While the child was a child,

ti did not know, that ti was a child,

everything for tem had a soul,

and all souls were one.

While the child was a child,

ti had no opinions about anything

had no habits,

often sat cross-legged,

burst running from a stand still,

had a cowlick in tems hair

and didn’t make faces in photographs

While the child was a child,

it was the time of the following questions:

Why am I – me, and why not you?

Why am I here and why not there?

When did time begin, and where does space end?

Is life under the sun really just a dream?

Is what I see and hear and smell,

not just a reflection of a world from before the world?

Is there really evil, and people

who really are evil?

How can it be that the I that I am,

before I was—was not,

and that sometime, the I that I am,

will no longer be the I that I am?

While the child was a child,

ti gagged on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,

and on steamed cauliflower,

and eats all of those now,

While the child was a child,

ti awoke one time in a strange bed

and now does so still,

so many looked kindly on tem,

but now, look only by accident,

ti dreamed of a real Paradise,

but now can barely imagine one,

ti could not not think of anything

And now, shudders at the idea.

While the child was a child,

ti played, full of wonder

but now, has the same as then, but only

when it comes to tems work.

While the child was a child,

for tem, as nourishment, apples and bread were enough,

and so is it still,

While the child was a child,

berries fell just like berries into tems hand,

and so do they still.

Fresh walnuts would give tem a raw tounge,

and so is it still,

ti had on every mountain,

the yearning for an even taller mountain,

and in every town,

the yearning for an even bigger town,

and this is still true,

reached to the tree-top for a cherry,

with an enthusiasm, just like today still,

a fear of every stranger,

and ti has it still,

ti waited for the that first snow,

and waits the same still.

While the child was a child,

ti threw a stick, like a spear at the tree,

and it quivers there still, to this day.