Early Bird

The early birds are no more music,

The folded newspaper has peculiar smell,

The fresh air too cold for lungs,

The soft sun brings no smile,

Morning Prayers, there are none.

I see myself ready for school

with shining shoes and nails clipped

An ironed uniform on limp shoulders

with bag full of lessons learnt.

This torturous time will meet its end

when i start my very own life.

My childhood thinks and curses,

the wretched bus, never failing to arrive

I want to tell him, 

How, it does unfold

But I stop myself and hold.

I can't invade little dreams,

I can't tear the drawing notebook,

with geometrical mountains and hut.

Letting Life happen , I goodbye myself, 

On the wretched, rickety bus