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When the child was a child, it walked with his arms swinging.
It wanted the stream to be a river, the river a torrent,
and this puddle to be a sea.
When the child was a child, it didn't know it was a child.
Everything was full of life, and all life was one.
When the child was a child, it had no opinions about anything. It had no habits.
It sat cross-legged, took off running, had a cowlick in his hair,
and didn't make a picture when photographed.
When the child was a child, it was the time of these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin and where does space ends?
Isn't life under the sun just a dream? Isn't what I see,
hear and smell only the illusion of a world before the world?
Does evil actually exist? And are there people who are really evil?
How can it be that I, who am I, didn't exist before I came to be?
And that someday the one who I am will no longer be the me I am?
When the child was a child, apples and bread were enough for it,
and it is still that way.
When the child was a child, berries fell into its hands as only berries do,
and they still do.
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw, and they still do now.
On every mountain top, it had a longing for a yet higher mountain,
and in every city it had a longing for a yet bigger city.
And it is still that way.
It reached for cherries in the treetop with the elation it still feels today.
It was shy with all strangers,
and it still is.
It awaited the first snow, and it is still this way.
When the child was a child, it threw a stick into a tree like a lance.
And it still quivers there today.
"Lied Vom Kindsein" — Peter Handke.
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