All the children come to me and I carry them,
Close and forlorn
In great, heaving sacks,
Split up the sides so eyes spill out
And hands, gasping for the air
Feel freedom and never touch it.
Small bags at my front
For tiny babes in arms
Whose screams are deafened by the weight
Of my care.
My old and weary body sways,
Stepping sideways, the path always rocky
As the children struggle and send me wide.
Sometimes they shake so that one falls away
And I lose it, even as I grabble in the long grass
Knowing this one finds its way home, safe.
I wonder if they choose the one to live
And combine their efforts to save it?
Watching through gaps with gleaming eyes
As the freed one leaps, limber and quick,
Out of my reach.
I leave it and travel on,
There are always more children.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem