Let it say,
poetry and children moved him.
They were the last breath
of my life.
The only thing for which
I opened my eyes
against inevitable fate.
Poetry lives in my soul,
and children water my love.
They cannot be
without each other.
Did I know this in the beginning?
Does a child realize its purity?
Does it sing and play
and wonder what it is?
I don’t remember such a thing.
My childhood was magic flutes,
railroads,
the smell of bark and chestnuts,
the coming and going
of imaginary friends.
I was a nomad
in search of tunnels,
stepping stones,
the fallen moon.
The language of children
is poetry.
They never shut windows.
They shout in happiness
when the sun comes up,
and I will hear them
even as I die,
like love calling out.