Children Listen

Children Listen

 

In the stillness of an average room, let's say a living room,

the silence is only a thin illusion, a sheer curtain,

because children, those little detectives of sound,

are lending their ears, which open and close like quaint garden gates.

 

Some will scamper after, nearly tripping over their own feet,

as they chase the elusive tails of our sentences—those slippery eels—

trying to grasp them with determined, chubby hands.

 

Meanwhile, others find a quiet magic in the pantomime of shadows,

those mute actors on the walls, staging their silhouettes at sunset,

with the children mirroring each secret motion,

joining in a game of follow-the-leader, wordlessly.

 

Each silhouette a teacher, each child a learner of the light and dark,

a room transformed into a silent theater,

where the only admission is a pair of wide, wide open eyes.

And the only performance—a lesson in the quiet art of listening.