One of the pleasures of my life
Is reading aloud
To a little child
Who still wants to look at the pictures
And listens intently to every word
Fascinated by the story
In fact the same story that was read to me
A million years ago
And I too
Was spellbound and enchanted
By the tale’s drama
Of peasant villagers and pots of porridge
Of wise women and foolish children.
Who would think
When now we live so remote from that life
That all of us children
Me and you and her would
Listen so joyfully
To this old story.