A few years ago, I called myself young
And I danced in the light and shadows
And I sang without caring how I sounded;
I wrote terrible cheesy stories
And I painted with vivid colors.
In short, I was a child.

Now, I have misplaced that child
(Never lost, for inside I’m still young)
I don’t wear clothing of all different colors
And sometimes I get lost within the shadows;
I put more romance into my stories
And I know how my singing voice sounds.

I can almost hear the music sounding,
An approaching adult, a disembarking child.
My life’s becoming the stuff of stories
(Albeit bad ones, written by the young,
Their covers in bold primary colors)
And once more I’m afraid I’m lost in shadow.

I want light to dispel this shadow
So I can hear the sweet bells’ sounds
And find in the music my colors—
The singing of maidens, the voices of children,
The everlasting song of the young
Weaving their webs of stories.

I as well, you know, write stories
(Pretty, fragile things, covered in shadow,
And covered in ribbons—the stuff of youngsters).
The most striking thing is the sounds
And that’s come not because of the children
But because of the colors.

It comes and surprises me, the coloring,
And sometimes they think it’s all a story—
Just me, being myself: A child.
I know it’s hard to believe; truth is shadowy
But, please believe, though it sounds
Like nothing more than the folly of the young.

It is; it is, to me, young
These sometimes bright or flowing colors,
That hide themselves inside notes, in sounds,
And inside the letters of words of a story
Even to me, it’s all doubt and shadow
As I think it’s fading; did I kill my child?