No matter what I say,
this child takes off something
along with his shirt.
Again he’s fallen asleep
without putting on pyjamas, naked.
Tucking him in,
I carefully look at him:
Is this my child?
I pick up his shirt.
Again I look into his sleeping face.
Is this my child?
No, I don’t, I don’t know
the child sleeping here:
a tree that has fallen,
a star that has dropped,
a boat that has lost its shore.