All morning he meddled in the mess,
Digging away the ' dirt' under that tree,
The mother in me flustered on,
Fuming, at the sight of her mud clad child,
'Come right away and clean it up! ! ',
'What a mess have you made up! ! '
He heeded no ear to his mum's bawl,
No speck of fear brushed 5 year old,
It kept falling on his deaf ears,
He just merried with his stones and the mud,
Digging away that ' dirt' by his hands.
'Why are you burying these STONES under the tree? ? ,
Making such a mess underneath! ! '
The mother in me just yelled on and on
And his little mind mend his ears to me,
Tired of his mom's squeaky noise.
'Mom, don't worry, this isn't a mess,
I am just here to grow a thing '
What on earth would grow out of a stone?
The mom in me muddled more.
'I am just growing a rock under the tree,
A nice and round rock this would be,
And we would sit on this rock under the tree,
when it grows nice, round and old,
As I would water this stone every day.'
Bury a seed a plant comes out!
Bury a stone, a rock would come! '
A fresh nice thought,
The mom in me thought,
Every day he shows me a new way,
To see this world in his own ways.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem