Now show me a picture of pain,
the child said to his mother.
You are not ready, she softly said,
let’s find another.
We’ve looked at pictures of joy,
of me as a boy.
You shown me daddy at your wedding
and me wrapped up in bedding.
You’ve shown me our life,
but where is the pain.
Where did you hear of pain,
my boy, my love?
I hear of it more and more,
and from the woman who lives next door.
Here, my son, go ahead and look.
You’ll find pictures here in this book.
“A History of the World” he read on page one.
When you’re older, rewrite this book, my son.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem