The Hit Poem by Sohan Prasad Sharma

It was then when I was age of eleven,
a thatched roof hut in the middle of the field.
Lost in joy as it was first i enjoying,
oxen ploughing the field and it was afternoon.
The oxen, the field and the ploughing,
anticipation of fine ripe after the first sowing.
Moving in the front heedless of the horns,
though chopped off tips, can make tears and torn.
Falling and tripping on the ploughed out soil,
lost in balancing overlooked those tailing behind.
I was in motion and suddenly I was a flying saucer.
the bullocks hit and me in flying commotion.
Down I came and bumped and everything went blank,
though I was hit I was totally unbroken and fit.
In few moments got conscious and without fit,
the tears eyes had a smile as up comes the only kid(son) .
I was surprised and enquired why that red and teary eyes,
and was kept secret and told when i was reliably old.
I was then a child tough, flexible and soft,
can balance and bear the lofty oxen's shot.
Now mom's seventy-five and I forty plus seven,
sometimes see her talk with teary eyes of my odd eleven.