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Poem



In the world nurtured by pristine nature,  
in God’s own lavish land so divine, 
a child is born with an empty malleable mind, 
where budding beauty of purity finds a niche, 
encased within the frame of innocence, 
of the real life waiting to be lived it has no sense. 

The child’s face blooms the flower of heavenly smile, 
the flawless fleeting mirror reflects God’s image,   
gets shattered with time’s tormenting impact, 
but the credulous simplicity may last long, 
while the challenging world around changes fast, 
as happened with me over the years under dust, 

I spent my childhood in the vale of blue hills,
where sparkling stream slithered in eloquent ebullience 
with the glistening liquid pearls of elegance, 
flowed with the flamboyant facade of silver splendor, 
bedecked our house with a glittering garland of wonder, 
with the latticed lacing loops of mesmeric meander. 

On its rippling water rapidly passing me by, 
I sailed paper boats tinged with rainbow colors, 
that glided wobbling in tortuous trail of curling current. 
I imagined my mariner mind drifted unbound 
on these crafts to distant dreamland of dormant attraction, 
framed within the child’s reveling reverie of imagination.
 
Carried away by the ebb of the tempestuous time,
the boats sank in the solvent sea of memory, 
but those adorable mesmerizing moments gone by, 
I live in the twilight hour with my inner child 
in the realm of naivety that makes me happy, 
for the child has not grown up yet within me.

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