Once more I am a child on Grandma’s lawn,
Slitting the stems of the daisies and buttercups,
The green juice under my nails.
I thread them alternately, one by one,
For the chain must be long and contain
Both silver and gold.
I have seven-league boots.
I am looking out over the hills,
And when I grow up I will stride out over
Those green and simple miles.
But the sun goes in,
And inside me something fails.
If I should go, then who will mirror me?
If they forget, what homecoming can there be?
And the lawn becomes a prison, the hills the bars,
And the world becomes as far away