Enfance (Childhood)

A colored pencil in his hand
and freckles on his face,
and the Night sky as a notebook
for newly learned words,

I recognize him, could he recognize me?

At that time, every drop of rain
was a tear of God,
and every house in his drawings
had a window on the true World.

Now only the memories remain.

Between grief and grace
there is almost no difference.
Enfance,
blessed motherland,

why do we have to leave you?

© Frédéric Georges Martin