The tenderness of a sprouting shoot,
Potent to bear thousands,
See’s the world with the naive eyes,
Gets Stepped, scratched, abused but still amends.
The young green tendril,
Naked, Curved and weak,
Steps out from it’s slumber,
Ground, stone or from creek.
The dark cold solitary cell,
With no wind, no sunshine and no condition well,
Sleeping in some unconscious soul,
Green, Brown or smoky coal.
The first two leaves aiming high,
With crimson red shade like a red pie,
Smiling in sunshine and dancing to the beats of rain,
It was born to the spirit of happiness,
Born to grow insane.
Plant, human or cattle,
Learns to grow,
With no fear of brow,
I Wish all could stay neophyte,
Having no real potential,
Yet jumping high with all their might.