Every moment that springs to life,
Like clay given a shape in playful hands;
It is the mould – a state of happiness;
Come what may, the moment never stays
It flows with gay, in might
Like the streams of a river frolicking forth
The chirping chirrups of childhood
Soaring to the skies…
But I see my child growing up;
Out growing every space;
The little one, with those little joys
No more a fledgling,
Coveting, competing, comparing,
Hankering, a pursuit unending
The tenacity, the ferocity, the veracity
The worry-Those marked lines on his brow,
He is an adult, an achiever-to-be
But the sparkle of his eyes lost in those shadows
To retreat to bliss, and shed those skins,
Would he, to the Himalayan ascetic, bow?
How I had wished my child would grow,
And how I yearn now,
that he could just be happy, the childlike
As one is meant to be!
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