I wonder what happened to that
Wondrous little seedling
That wakes up at midnight, craving for milk
But then he reaches for the stars
Instead of crying
He then looks up upon his wooden box
The whole solar system suspended above him
Tilts and turns to every gush
and every swish of the slightly opened window.
A sweep of an indefinite duration of hypnosis
I wonder how suddenly his rocket
That gone up with flames, as he grew up
Now burns itself into tiny particles?
Was it destined to be; or
Was it someone’s fault? or
Was it the parents
Who wakes too late for breakfast
And helplessly flow like the black hole of growing up:
Of indecisiveness and ignorance and unending oblivion?
What was of this seedling who became a comet
who burns its crystals as farther as he goes?
What was of his life had we missed?
What had been of this seedling?
The fact of the questionable
reminds me of that same child I saw
inside this polished deep crib
who was this little sprout of ignorance
Who doesn’t mind reaching far beyond those of others
But of how he wants to reach those twisty stars
As the gush of the wind gives way to a baby’s laughter
I wonder what could have been of that seedling as what I saw in him…
It could have been the best blessing ever.