Rumbling through the woods,
the kid hustled and sang his playtime.
No worries, no temptations, none of
the hefty assignments to dive into.
Running along the road's shoulder;
One step hip; one step hop, he bounced.
The ball on the ground,
in the sky - cheered.
Alas! His was the life, the officer
longed for; had been dying for.
To rhyme the winds, to dirt
his toes, to scratch his elbows.
Poor he, had no choice; but
a dry life - a white shirt, that
remained white east to west.
Never did it get a stain; of joy.
They met one day; reflections.
The elder saw him tender, still
he revoked his step aback.
A smile so fine, is not to a child,
what he longs is a woody playtime.
Ran he, into the field, to his love
the dirt, pebble, dust and scratch.
The other turned; content he moved,
Listening to the echo in the vicinity.
© Rajat Mahajan. 2010