Sooner or later we find her.
In dreams, she appears, that child,
(never at the beginning,
never at the beginning—
we would be crazy with grief).
She is starving in a pile of garbage,
in a basement under the basement.
Somebody tried to kill her.
Frightened, she ran downstairs.
She may even accuse you.
She is the age she was
when she fled.
And she must be fed.
One hour a day, let her play,
let her sing, let her dance,
let her be with her dreams.
She will grow strong and beautiful.
From “Listening to My Soul,” in Coming Home to Myself