The wind may be strong now,
pulls and pushes a kite up and down,
a little child may not be happy: but sad,
for what the wind does to her trophy,
she cries aloud, showing her torn kite,
to her loved ones who are around,
the frock of her not spared: flies as wings,
the girl is crushed and left as a lone swing,
She goes to rest for a while,
on the lap of her kind Mum,
what a magic it is, the Sun is out,
and the kite floats in her deep mind,
She wakes up quick and runs out as a stork;
her torn kite got healed and kept as a gift,
for her to pick up the courage, again to try,
Look, the flights of kites display their might.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem