'More fortunate than either, I reckoned those yet unborn'
Ecclesiastes, 4.2

The yet unborn
has known neither pain nor word,
nor the growing of the day nor its falling off,
nor has felt the avid body's yearning
or the glance of light on the hands;
he does not know the nimbleness of pumas,
the loud colours of macaws;
he has not felt the unwelcoming cold
or the heavy dampness
that slows the passing of hours,
he has never donned the sea's ancient robes
nor has he touched the forest or the rocks
nor ever trod the path of death.
He might be happy
to be unborn,
but does not bear in skin or memory
the taste of passing years;
the weave of the wind
does not course through his blood,
and the cry of tenderness
lies mute between his barren lips.
Perhaps he's quite content
without the smell of tea
or the taste of oranges.
I could never be.

Translated by Robert Archer