Eight Year Old Poet

On the platform, in Pasternak’s unerased footprints, leaving behind your own print, you stand a moment with me in farewell, eight-year-old poet. I can’t understand your origins or from which kind of rain you come. Created almost in a vacuum, Nika, you part the rain with a mere glance. You simply stopped being a child, burning, tormenting yourself. As soon as you learned to stand, you spat your pacifier into the fire. A secret little queen, you and your crown have grown into one. Each illness you’ve survived is a heavy jewel in your tiara. I fear that you will suddenly shatter, and the invisible ring of the freshly forged white-hot crown will scorch your childish bangs. A pencil in your fingers is heavier than a scepter; your notebook has iron pages. If a chasm opens at your feet, you have nothing to lose but your childhood. Might this be our salvation from a lack of poets, when children as if from a cliff leap directly into the poetry-abyss to fill up the gap? If elders fear this profession, children will avenge them. Will a nursery bring forth a Homer and kindergarten a Shakespeare? Children are secret grown-ups. This torments. All of us are secret children, and we’ll never grow up completely, because we fear the children within. On the platform, in Pasternak’s eternal footprints, leaving behind your own print, you sigh a deep moan inside, eight-year-old poet. With a burst you skip and run down the platform, flying with girlish delight, but when you stumble on your dropped crown you are no longer a child. And from the foot-board your eyes call me into a life where there is no age. Farewell! It’s too late for me to jump on your train, eight-year-old poet.