A child is born today,
saying something in his cries.
It was on the first of May,
saw revolt in innocent eyes.
Feeble though was his voice,
strongly clenched was his fist.
In birth he had no choice,
except hue and cry in gist.
Soft, sweet whispers today,
will tomorrow ring the bell.
This child in afternoon of May,
in future will be a 'story-to-tell'.
Prasenjit©1997-2012
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