Mind Mine

The child in me stands out, often, rudely, Shocking me; shaking me; threatening me; Questioning all foundations and traditions, Rites, rituals, routines, convictions... Sometimes like logical philosopher, Sometimes like ancient saintly foreteller; Sometimes like wild rough, rude beastly creature, Provokes thoughts on life with its true feature... It's in such character transformation, Assumed the form of child in transition; Finding enchantments all over the earth, Felt fascination for her very birth... This little girl, my inner child, asks me, To tell stories on butterflies, fancy; Might be owing my mood, then, anger-filled, There's once one, I said, it's dead and got burred... This made commotion on the child within, Butterflies have appositely term thin; Why don't we, at least, in our stories give, Greater life-span and make them to long live... 26 January 2022