Forget not the way you passed, say sages,
But I hate those childhood days, and I try
To ignore them, not in my recklessness,
Did it purposely, and no more regrets.

I took my old notebook of childhood poems
And another one of my early paintings,
Tore them to pieces and burnt to ashes,
And erased those disgusting memories!

The first page of my torn out book of poems
Displayed a poem on Onam festival;
The first page of my fade out painting book
Showed a cross, drawn in cheap watercolour!

Those books had hundreds of silly poems,
True rudiments for a poetic life,
Had scores of paintings from immature dreams;
They're trodden steps to reach a bright future.

Perhaps I was scared of those days by-gone,
Days of poverty and scarcity they're,
Of childhood fancies and fearful nightmares,
Which I hate to call to the present mirth!

Many a poet glorifies his childhood,
Lives and dies in useless, fake nostalgia,
I pity them, and think of it mere waste
To be thrown into the dustbin of life.

Today I write on bloodshed festivals,
And paint with permanent oil on canvass,
Yet better are these days than of childhood,
Those carefree days of worthless innocence!

For I hate to weep over those lost days,
I'm glad; I discarded my ugly slough;
I'm happily sloughed off my sad childhood
To be preened for my cheerful days ahead.