The Grown Childhood

The Teacher had said once,
        let your childhood grow with buns.

I did the same thing looking at my old being.
        Bungling in lawns, dawdling on street,
flying in that open field without even a single wing.
        But grown are those fields which used to greet.

There were the games of risk and pains,
        scurrying, hurrying, chasing and fighting,
wrapped in muck we looked insanes.
        But grown are the legs that used to tripping.

There used to be the evenings,
        the Sun raced away from the sight,
encroaching some time from our readings.
        But grown are those twilights into the nights.

There used to be wickets of brick,
        jeering at the passers with cluttering balls and bat,
and shattering the panes with little prick.
        But gone are the bats that used to pat.

There used to be rains with slow drain,
        in which we waded and played,
with trousers folded and rippling twain.
        But grown are the rains that pleased everyone with its shred.

There were the orchards with tall walls,
        hopping which we hoped for mangoes tip,
dodging the custodians with witty pals.
        But grown are the orchards into tiny kip.

There were the tales that grandmother said,
        of fairies, devils, elephants, and ants,
enraptured we listened, duped and graved.
         But grown are the tales into digital wants.

Now I get what is this growing,
         to kill your alacrity for the sake of billowing.
But the teacher had said once,
         let your childhood grow with buns.

                                      ✍️ Rohit Raj✍️