Granddaughter stepping up to the mike, singing softly,
but distinctly to the audience.
Clapping easing the butterflies in soloists stomachs,
unusually in sync with one another, talent beginning
to sprout from children on the brink of their futures.
Watching them, we wonder where they will be at in the
next few years.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem