The child returns to me every now and then
That child, who was once my own self
And whom I discarded like some old newspapers
Used to wrap up some time-worn antiques;
Or some stale jokes- oft repeated.
The child comes to me and says
I am not what I think I am.
Probably I am still a blurry shadow of the child
Or some pencil-strokes carelessly made
On his school note-books.
Every now and then I feel the child in me
With clothes put off. And past all reasons.
Past all recognition.