Will your little hands, comparable to
the tapping hands of Handel, be remembered?
Will your young mind, comparable
in acumen to Curie, flourish?
How much violence deflects and how much
is imbibed by your little, grandiose mind?
Remember that perfect railroad track, your trains
turning the corners of that miniature city?
We both played, smiling, yet your creation
brought out something unexpected when we saw
a display of your father’s simmering spite.
He kicked the railroad, destroying your trains,
your perfect city came to an end as your smile
moved to confused crying, dear, sweet child.
Remember though that imagination, like elemental energy,
cannot be destroyed, and no matter the suppression,
we will wait for the emergence of your innate
genius, as distinct as Da Vinci’s.
One day it will flower again
with sweet stems outstretched,
absorbing all light, shutting out
the darkness that comes your way.