No answer
When I was a child,
I had a tomcat that loved sleeping in my bed,
and a dog that lived outside
and barked at night when demons would come.
I wore sneakers, shorts,
and a green hat made from a burdock leaf.
I broke my neighbors' windows
with a slingshot just like
the kids from the Hidden Street.
I brought home flowers, wild strawberries,
pine buds, and shiny stones;
I caught butterflies and watched the sun
through colored glass fragments.
In the summer, I went to the sea with my parents,
built sandcastles, swallowed salty water,
gathered seashells for my collection,
and tanned like a corsair of distant southern seas.
My grandmother made me cherry and walnut jams
so I’d grow strong, while my grandfather
took me treasure-hunting in the forest,
telling stories of fairies, gnomes, and giants.
I snuck into the locker room to peek at girls,
wrote love notes, and went to secret meetings for first kisses.
In a few words, I was a boy like any other,
meant to grow into a man like any other — one of millions
of happy men. Now I only want to know
why things didn't turn out that way...
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