Painting of a child.

I drew when I was small,

icy mountains and a river bare,

a bunch of birds flying,

crows, mynas or geese- I didn't care.

From behind the mountains

a scarlet sun, with rays radiating wise,

Sometime a face, faceless otherwise,

But always seeming to rise.

The little hut besides the river,

small, big, I’d hardly worry about class.

A tiny door and just one window,

with lush green dew less grass.

Sometimes when I’d be too happy,

the skies would have more crows

or the tree gifted with apples plush,

the river with an added boat.

A thrill it was to paint a thought,

even if it rhymed with most

The mountains, the tree, the river and the hut,

No sad, no gloom, no ghost.

A fool to wish, for past to come,

For now I drew a setting sun.

The pencil and the paper, they trade

Freewill with a house of walls and gates.