When I, like an old professor, scoff all to shape;
My inner child scratches me within, like an ape.
I laugh aloud forgetting all belittling ills;
He says, I’m a hyena, and thus my zeal kills.
I cry and he says you’re a soft sensitive girl;
And my emotional eruption gets a curl.
I lay peaceful wanting to have ‘Kumbkarna’ sleep;
He laughs at me and says, sleep has nothing to keep.
When I, like Buddha, go to the ‘Bodhi’ he says;
Any tree is ‘Bodhi’ if you’re in Buddha’s ways.
Each work he criticizes yet he’s not ill-willed,
It’s because he’s my true and only inner child.
My child is critical yet so objective too,
He is, to his conscience, always honest and true.
It’s he, yet, my life, like a judge, evaluates;
Owing to him, as the sun, my life operates.
Times might change; years become eras; life designs all;
The child in me, like the polestar, directs my call.