Everyone has a child in himself,
Who sleeps in his heart,
To keep that child in drowsy state,
Is, the skillful human art.
Man poses himself to be mature,
He is master of art and skill,
He climbs up stairs in life,
The world moves on, at his will.
Childish purity in heart is shielded,
Smile of child, slowly gets lost,
Man writes the future in space,
By rubbing, the script of past.
Dancing of birds, swinging of trees,
Flutter of butterfly, and twinkling stars,
Chastity of soul, and innocent eyes,
All turn into hatred, terror, and wars.
Violence, lust, slyness, and proud,
Man inherits, along with the age,
When he reads the meaning of life,
The child in him, laughs in the cage.
“You cannot reverse the time-wheel”,
Says inner child, bent on his knees,
“All the world is blessed to you,
But you cannot get me”.
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