Ah, spring! The birds are chirping, the flowers are blooming, and…my kid is about to launch a full-scale nuclear attack on a defenseless ladybug with a plastic shovel. Classic.
Now, before you call Parenting Services, let me explain. This ladybug-attempted squashing incident triggered in me a repressed childhood memory that wouldn’t stay buried any longer. It all came flooding back: sunshine, scraped knees, and a poem that left me more emotionally scarred than any playground fall.
The poem? “Gândacelul” (The Little Bug) by Elena Farago.
This seemingly simple children’s poem had the emotional impact of a Nicholas Sparks novel on my tiny Romanian self. It tells the story of a little bug pleading for its life after being captured by a child (probably wielding a plastic shovel, much like my own offspring). The bug cries about its parents, its siblings, its short but fulfilling bug life. Needless to say, by the end of the poem, I was a blubbering mess, vowing eternal protection to every spider, beetle, and unfortunate earthworm that crossed my path. Even today it pops in my mind every time I have a close call with a little than me creature.
Here’s the poem, translated by me (with some artistic liberty to preserve the rhyme scheme):
Why trap me tight within your hand,
Sweet child, who doesn't understand?
I'm small and weak, this makes me sore,
Why squeeze me so, and hurt me more?
A child like you, I play and roam,
Please show some mercy, let me home!
My tiny heart with fear does beat,
These tears you see, they can't be beat.
Why take my life, so fresh and new?
My parents wait, just yours for you.
My mother weeps, my sisters grieve,
My father mourns, I can't believe.
I've only lived three precious days,
Have mercy, child, on all my ways.
Please let me go, I beg of thee,
This pain I feel, it's killing me!
A tiny bug, with cries of woe,
Fought back the fist that clenched, to show
Its fear of ending, crushed and small,
The child released, but naught at all
Remained within that hand so tight.
He tried to mend the broken light
Of tiny wings, with gentle puff,
But life was gone, a broken bluff.
Repelled by what his deed had done,
No use for tears, beneath the sun.
Go tell your folks, oh child so blue,
The story of what you just slew.
And tell them this, with heart sincere,
From now on, kindness you will hold dear.
All creatures, great and very small,
Deserve a chance, to stand up tall.
Yeah, that’ll do it. Talk about an existential crisis for a five-year-old.
But here’s the thing: “Gândacelul” wasn’t just about saving bugs (although, let’s be honest, that ladybug is safe now). It was about empathy, about understanding that even the tiniest creatures have a life, a family, feelings, a desperate need to avoid a plastic-shovel beatdown.
And that’s a lesson that transcends language and culture. So, as I explained to my child (with maybe a touch more dramatic flair than necessary), we don’t squish bugs. We admire their industriousness, their tiny exoskeletons, and their surprising resilience (especially after a close call with a plastic shovel).
So, thank you, Elena Farago, for giving me a childhood filled with both emotional turmoil and a deep respect for creepy-crawlies. And hey, maybe your poem will do the same for my kid. Just hopefully with a little less existential dread.
Ink And Reason 