When the child was a child (Peter Handke)

When the child was a child

It walked with its arms swinging.

It wanted the stream to be a river

the river a torrent

and this puddle to be the 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 its hair

and didn't make a face 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 end?

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 one I am?

When the child was a child

it choked on spinach, peas, rice pudding

and on steamed cauliflower.

Now it eats all of those

and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child

it once woke up in a strange bed

and now it does so time and time again.

Many people seemed beautiful then

and now only a few, if it's lucky.

It had a precise picture of Paradise

and now it can only guess at it.

It could not conceive of nothingness

and today it shudders at the idea.

When the child was a child

it played with enthusiasm

and now

it gets equally excited

but only when it concerns

its work.

When the child was a child

berries fell into its hand as only berries do

and they still do now.

Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw

and they still do now.

On every mountaintop it had a longing

for yet a higher mountain.

And in each city it had a longing

for yet a bigger city.

And it is still that way.

It reached for the 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 still waits that way.

When the child was a child

it threw a stick into a tree like a lance,

and it still quivers there today.

Peter Handke