By a kid

By a kid

 

Its intention

within its limitation

conveys an infant

at that very instant

crying at a pitch

eloquently rich

for its mother

the best to answer.

While growing up from infancy

adds, it, to its sounds of fancy

babbling voice, quite unclear

broken, of its own, pleasant to hear,

clear to the mother to interpret

and it accurately can elaborate

to take pride in its creation

but with humility try for correction.

 

But puzzles it the most, me

when children around three

the moment the two of them meet

and each other, their eyes greet

despite never knowing earlier

meeting first time each other.

Picking kids around their age

what they ably correctly gauge.

make friends very soon

as if for them - a divine boon

“ How do they communicate,

survive in games of love and hate?

Forgets these men at the grown-up stage

with misunderstanding, a battle they wage

as if the better as claimed the communications

proven it is, worse are conflicts and confusion.

 

with mom and pal their communication

thus is an analysis and a conception

But thus is a description of a child of three

forty years back what I saw in her eye

floats since then in my inner vision

since then in me, these often run

 

An inquisitive eye

with eloquent sigh

filled with pang and pain

searching her friend in vain

forty years back. of a kid gal

aged three searching for her pal

of the same age, my daughter

whom she met six months earlier.

Took I her in my visit, previous

to my village because of her fuss

Both as neighbors in the village

promptly tied in friendship bondage

playing nonstop with tears and laughter

all the days of my stay they stayed together.

They communicated by gesture and posture

at babbling communication, they did never err..

At times arm in arm, they moved with whispers

and cuddled each other as to them, did elders.

perhaps they learned from it and loved it

hence they imitated it, never to split.

without notice of their reaction

we left the village after my vacation.

To the village, I went alone next vacation

the girl was longing for her pal, heartbroken.

Find I no words to express the expression

that spoke she through the eloquence of her vision

she could not speak her heart out

for my lapse, she blamed me, no doubt

all that I could understand from her eye

forty years since then that often haunts me.

She is by now a grandmother in a village

To beg her pardon breaking the bondage.

I must go to her with my daughter

also, ask about their conversations if they remember.

 

P K Routray

In the service of the Lord