Chose a feeling,
Still slippery wet
From it's mother's womb,
Cradle it gently
And sing sweet lovelies
Until the words come.
Trembling ones
That toddle precariously about
At the edge of your consciousness.
Nurse with pen,
Diaper with paper.
A still, quiet heart to
Hear the silent coos
Of perfect phrase.
Wait too long
To nurture the child
The child, now grown,
Will stride off with giant steps
With only the faintest remembrance
Left cluttered about.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
If I don't write down immediately what comes to my mind, it's gone in a flash, mind you that could be because of my age. The memory doesn't store things so quickly nowadays. Like this one a lot. Sincerely Ernestine Northover