I once read a book
about a child
who was neglected by his parents,
and who saw from his window,
a crane
working on the building next door.
And interacting with that crane,
he developed crane-like movements
and crane-like language.
So, perhaps, do all of us
through our infant pores
imprint escape, or anxiety, or safety
just below the level of reason
that comforts or plagues us
the rest of our lives.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem