Every year
this day
children search
under bushes
behind
signs within the church.
They unfold
their worlds
for everything
their parents have hidden from them.
Colorful prizes
await the most fortunate
energetic youth.
I see them
grow nebula
in each planned discovery.
I wonder
if some will
tire of the hunt if
over time their baskets will fill
shrink to satisfaction
or spill. I have
dropped things. When I leave
this world
I will do so
still searching.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem