George Kirazian, Jr: Das Weinende Kind

For those few moments she was a woman.

Often I had seen her
Spinning in the sun
To her own music,
And prayed that no smudged playmate
Would take away that birthday laughter.

Yet her forehead rested on the stair,
And a world of ribbons and fresh mornings 
was hidden.

This poem has appeared in Ararat, Volum II, No 2, Spring 1961