Now show me a picture of pain,
the little boy asked 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 you haven’t shown me 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, will you rewrite the book, my son?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Nice poem. was a good read...