The Lost Child

What spring he had in his steps

Joyfully moving like a butterfly kissing flowers

The smile could penetrate the coldest of heart

Singing so gleefully like in a trance

Such rhythm like a ballroom dance

Always ready in his quest

Always so anxiously asking innocent questions

But all that seems nothing more than a story of the past

There is no spring in his steps

Sadly he moves at a snail’s pace

The smile is miles away

Songs replaced by a wail

The rhythm gone

A vague disinterested look in the eye

No more of innocence

The child is lost in the oblivion

About time for us to ponder the cause…


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