Tublu

Have you heard of Tublu?
That boy curious,
Who would every afternoon
Come to my room
And if he would find me
With pens and pencils a bit busy,
He would say nothing,
But crane his neck to see
What I would be doing,
At occasions, he would stop
And on my works he would drop,
His comments, engaging,
'What do you mean when you say
Storms have taken buds away?'

I would just smile at him,
And indulge in his remarks knowing
Tublu only can make me feel
How wonderous is the world still,
If seen through his eyes,

Sometimes Tublu would ask me
Impossible queries,
'Who has created this world?
'Why are we here?'

I would think hard to find
Answers that could fit into his mind,
'God has created us,
And we are here
Because of Him'

'Who is this God?
Can I meet him?'
Tublu would ask,

'Sure, if you remain what you are,
Innocent and pure,'
I would tell him,

He would think for a while
And then suddenly runaway to bring
His box of toys, broken things,
A cart, a wheelbarrow, a telescope,
A drummer, a plastic soldier, a case of soap,

And I being guided by
Tublu, would play,
Till the afternoon would turn
Into evening
And the streetlights outside
Would glow,

Tublu would then
Wrap his things up
And before he would go,
He would flash his smile,
And tell me, he would again come,
The next day,
Keeping me
Waiting.