to julian

juli
you are growing up
you are already two
and you wake up the sun
in the park the grass stings
but you are not afraid
you put on your helmet you ask for that other thing
with a helicopter in your hand
you jump over the cat’s shadow
you look for your firetruck in the backpack
and you laugh as if
the world has never gone wrong
and will never go wrong

juli
don’t lick the sea
even if it looks like a watermelon rind
come here
I’ll cut you a slice
and pick out the seeds
come let me show you a cloud
with a boat in it and grandma and grandpa
and they are waving to us with their hands and their oars

juli
you don’t know about maps and borders
about the cold rooms
where adults decide who the enemy is
you love everybody
you even kiss the pebble
that scraped your knee

juli
don’t say “fault”
say “foam”
don’t say “war”
say “wren”
don’t say “loss”
say “lobster”
and may your tongue remain innocent
for as long as possible

(you call the clock “coocoo”)

juli
even if the world burns
you will be a pond in the shade of a fig tree
and if the sky is shut
you will be a window
letting in wafts of oregano and the rooster’s crow

juli
when you trip
I will pick you up
and when you grow up
we will call your name again
a month that lasts a lifetime

run along dear child of light
come here go there
I will make you a pancake
and you will throw it
and it will stick to the sky
I will tell you a story
about excavators and motorcycles
I will carry you on my shoulders
until the day grows tired
and you fall asleep laughing

Translated by Maria Vassileva