Somehow I know
I want to reach out
into the deepest core of the day
and from it bring back one more time
the far root of the child
the sole dreamer,
return the moment
of self and no other
of mind without species,
seen blurred through the water of time.
I want to describe
how in a space
remote from the world
miraculous nature quivers and flowers
and contains the child,
and not part of any age
but the age of the Earth,
the age of a landscape
that does not belong to me.
I see the child,
and I feel him there, reaching out
to a world, the word alone will try
to grasp. So that the word
itself flowering
not able to capture the feeling,
the strangeness,
will go on threading its net, gathering,
finding it empty,
until only the net is left,
and the child,
and the word.
— A.S. Kline
