Teach me how to watch and talk
so that I may speak my mind,
show me where it’s safe to walk
till the time that I will find
my own way with watchful eye:
take my hand and let me fly!

And I’ll take you up with me
to the sky, and while we soar
high above the world, you’ll see
things you’ve never seen before
as the clouds are rolling by:
take my hand and let me fly!

Nobody knows a flower's fashion,
can tell a blossom by the root;
we only get a vague impression
as soon as we can see the shoot.

Cast a warm summer with some showers,
and every little plant will thrive:
roots will bring forth all kinds of flowers,
and children are the roots of life!

On Mother's Day and Father's Day
you put us children on the spot -
we have to bring you gifts and say
we're grateful to you in every way,
whether you earned our thanks or not.

Would it not be the proper thing
to hold a Children's Day as well,
to thank us for the joy we bring
into your lives, the songs we sing,
the smiles we smile, the tales we tell?

We don't want much: an afternoon
spent at the venue of our choice,
a handmade present and a tune,
a cake and maybe a balloon -
a day on which we have a voice!

A lot of struggle and of strife
have brought you where you are today;
your kids deserve a better life
than you have had, that's what you say.

You want them to get As and Bs,
lined up like trophies on a shelf,
and all the opportunities
that you have never had yourself.

Their future starts right in the pram,
that's the unquestionable truth,
so if you want what's best for them,
give them a childhood and a youth!

Divided according to colour and size,
the violets rest in rectangular beds,
the neatly trimmed brier won many a prize,
beside the straight path marigolds lift their heads,
the rose bushes grow in an accurate line
where no butterfly ever sojourned,
the hedge shows that garden and flowers are mine:
we need to see Beauty interned!

Flamingoes pace up and pace down with clipped wings,
the stupefied tiger won't move in his cell,
the nightingale, chained to the perch, never sings,
the tortoise retracts in its leathery shell,
the gibbon hangs down from a bar on one leg,
then grabs all the nuts he has earned
and longs for the days he did not have to beg:
we need to see Beauty interned!

We silence their laughter and sneer at their grace,
we're holding their hands and we never let go,
we show them their limits, constricting their space:
Do this, Don't do that and Don't talk till you grow!
We're forcing our children who yearn to be free
to study the things we have learned
and become what we always desired to be:
we need to see Beauty interned!

Often, in town and in the park,
in restaurants, in pubs and cafes,
we hear a baby's joyful crow
that means: It's great to be alive!

Not worrying about the future,
not knowing any petty problems,
bursting with life, the little baby
has every reason to rejoice.

And so the adults try to hush them:
Don't be a nuisance! Stop that noise!
Be quiet now, and don't annoy
the others with your happiness.

As soon as you're speechless, you lift up your arm:
'Me dad's done the same, and't din't do me no harm!'

The blow of your hand, be it hard, be it slight,
just proves that you're stronger but not that you're right.

A thrashing, a clip on the ear - it's all one
and shows disrespect for your daughter or son.

A bomb can wipe out many millions of men -
do you think it was nice if it killed only ten?

'It was only a smack'; you may swim with the tide,
but the damage you've done is not on the outside.

You're proud that your child now obeys when you call;
your child is afraid, not judicious at all.

Your kids who are constantly scared by your paw
grow up with the knowledge: the fist is the law!

The parents of bullies, vexatious and wild,
you see more of the Gards than you see of your child.

Frustrated and angry, you'll moan before long;
'By Jesus and Mary, what have we done wrong?' -

You taught them that violence solves every row
and expect them to be peaceful citizens now?

I was sixteen when I was leaving school
and wanted to become a childcare worker;
my parents' plans for me were more ambitious,
and so I studied, but I didn't finish,
and then I studied something else and failed.
An unskilled job, a year on social welfare,
and finally I pulled myself together:
at twice sixteen I was a childcare worker.

I was sixteen, aspiring to be a writer,
and started novels, stories and the like;
my parents smiled and said it was all right
as long as I would not neglect my studies
in favour of my hobby - so I wrote,
wrote something else and something else again,
and never got a story finished. Then,
at twice sixteen, I pulled myself together,
and I became the poet that I am.

You may be able to delay their future,
you even may be able to enforce
their apathetic service for a lifetime,
but you will never manage to transfigure
your kids' identity with your ideas.

If ever I have children of my own,
and they decide that they'd become designers,
rock stars or presidents or astronauts,
I know for sure that I'll encourage them.

'Mum, I can't sleep tonight because I fear
the old invisible man who's in my room
and watches everything I do, who'll hear
all things I whisper and who'll spell my doom,
who will come out to get me before long,
and who will burn me if I'm doing something wrong.'

'Oh darling, there's no need to be afraid
of God! I'm certain that he loves you still;
he'll only punish those who disobeyed,
but he'll reward all those who do his will.
You'll be in Paradise with him one day
if you do everything your priests and parents say.'

How blessed is the child who grows up without guilt,
who's not taught they were born in sin
and worthless without the blood that was spilt
by a god who is trying to win.

How blessed is the child who grows up without fear
of invisible creatures who trail
all their steps and provide many rules that aren't clear
and a hell for the people who fail.

How blessed is the child who grows up without hate,
who's not taught there's a god who dislikes
certain races, beliefs, all who tolerate
science, atheists, faggots and dykes.

How blessed is the child who grows up without pew,
a child whose own parents were freed:
if only all children were blessed like these few,
the world would be blessed indeed.

At the weekend the family goes to the lake
with their lunch boxes, soft drinks and snacks,
and the children spread out to play at the beach,
and the adults sit down and relax.

You wish you were either but know you are neither:
you’re invisible through and through,
and the ones most unlikely to understand
are the ones in the same boat as you.