By Ranju M Paulson
My child, how innocent you are.
When we go to church in white dress,
Your heart is as pure as your dress,
But not mine.
The battle with sin is a tough game;
Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose.
I like to blow up the balloon;
You like to burst it soon.
I am a flower near a factory.
It’s a complicated industry;
There’s smoke from this sophisticated place;
It stains me relentlessly.
Yet, my child, I’ll try to bathe in
The rain of Words that fall from the Heaven,
And be worthy of your love.