When the child was a childIt walked with its arms swinging.It wanted the stream to be a riverthe river a torrentand this puddle to be the sea.When the child was a childIt didn’t know it was a child.Everything was full of life, and all life was one.When the child was a childIt had no opinions about anything.It had no habits.It sat cross-legged, took off running,had a cowlick in its hairand didn’t make a face when photographed.When the child was a childit 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 end?Isn’t life under the sun just a dream?Isn’t what I see, hear and smellonly 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 beand that somedaythe one who I amwill no longer be the one I am?When the child was a childit choked on spinach, peas, rice puddingand on steamed cauliflower.Now it eats all of thoseand not just because it has to.When the child was a childit once woke up in a strange bedand now it does so time and time again.Many people seemed beautiful thenand now only a few, if it’s lucky.It had a precise picture of Paradiseand now it can only guess at it.It could not conceive of nothingnessand today it shudders at the idea.When the child was a childit played with enthusasmand nowit gets equally excitedbut only when it concernsits work.When the child was a childberries fell into its hand as only berries doand they still do now.Fresh walnuts made its tongue rawand they still do now.On every mountaintop it had a longingfor yet a higher mountain.And in each city it had a longingfor yet a bigger city.And it is still that way.It reached for the cherries in the treetopwith the elation it still feels today.It was shy with all strangersand it still is.It awaited the first snowand it still waits that way.When the child was a childit threw a stick into a tree like a lance,and it still quivers there today.*Peter Handke, Lied Vom KindseinQui l'originale in lingua tedesca.
Song of Childhood*
When the child was a childIt walked with its arms swinging.It wanted the stream to be a riverthe river a torrentand this puddle to be the sea.When the child was a childIt didn’t know it was a child.Everything was full of life, and all life was one.When the child was a childIt had no opinions about anything.It had no habits.It sat cross-legged, took off running,had a cowlick in its hairand didn’t make a face when photographed.When the child was a childit 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 end?Isn’t life under the sun just a dream?Isn’t what I see, hear and smellonly 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 beand that somedaythe one who I amwill no longer be the one I am?When the child was a childit choked on spinach, peas, rice puddingand on steamed cauliflower.Now it eats all of thoseand not just because it has to.When the child was a childit once woke up in a strange bedand now it does so time and time again.Many people seemed beautiful thenand now only a few, if it’s lucky.It had a precise picture of Paradiseand now it can only guess at it.It could not conceive of nothingnessand today it shudders at the idea.When the child was a childit played with enthusasmand nowit gets equally excitedbut only when it concernsits work.When the child was a childberries fell into its hand as only berries doand they still do now.Fresh walnuts made its tongue rawand they still do now.On every mountaintop it had a longingfor yet a higher mountain.And in each city it had a longingfor yet a bigger city.And it is still that way.It reached for the cherries in the treetopwith the elation it still feels today.It was shy with all strangersand it still is.It awaited the first snowand it still waits that way.When the child was a childit threw a stick into a tree like a lance,and it still quivers there today.*Peter Handke, Lied Vom KindseinQui l'originale in lingua tedesca.