The boy with the baby hair,
Never in any order.
Cluttered under a disciplined umbrella.
The umbrella of imaginary disciplines.
Not a thin skin with boundaries;
No bumps formed with the strings or like parachute;
Nor any pointed edges.
It’s a splash like white clouds;
At times the dark clouds;
Disorder was the order;
His baby head the cloud of chaos;
Being the cloud, never worried about the rains.
The child in you is the rain and sunshine;
Lightning and thunder;
No wonder; at times the breeze.
The breeze for all generations.
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