Children are the symbols,
Of hope, of innocence, of vitality,
Add colours to life,
With shades light and dark,
As a painter on the rough surface,
of canvas does with a brush.
They are the comedians,
Bring solace, entertaining relief,
In weariness, tedium of toil.
They laugh with tears in the eyes,
They weep smilingly,
Like great actors on the stage.
By climbing up the stairs,
Think mounting the Himalayan tops,
And walking before the elders,
They feel to be the leading champions,
And eat ice-cream with coffee hot.
Amid the running vans,
Find the road a fit place to dance.
By dragging a toy vehicle with a cord,
They feel themselves to be the lords.
Their visages are the books,
Of truth, open and manifest,
Minds, thoughts, and hearts,
Unpolluted, close to nature;
But in the course of time,
We, the elders, temper their simplicity,
By corrupting, making them profane.
We make them a cause of turmoil,
That brings discord to the woven fabric.
O Friends! Disdain not them,
For they are the Mobile Roses,
Perpetuate the flow of posterity,
I see in them my ancestors,
And peeping out,
The descending generations.