Innocence

The tiny drop of trust lay peacefully,

on the wrinkled brown leaf in my hand.

I watched it quiver, shake and shiver,

along with my tired, trembling fingers.

It reminded me of a blue-eyed infant,

swaying to the music of his Ma's voice.

He, who falls over, over and over,

only to be picked up lovingly and fondled.

That child then gazes at the stars above,

and tries to map out a life that shines.

His twinkling map has naught to proffer,

but flowers of love, mirth and fame.

Little does he know of one-ways,

dark alleys and sudden dead-ends;

for life, for him, was always just a

mere stroll in the verdant park,

or at most, a jog on the rumbling seashore.