THE LOTUS OF THE DESERT A poem by Deepak Menon

As I walked along the road, I spied
A little boy sitting, by its side.
His head was held in one tiny hand
With the other he scribbled in the sand.

I stopped and asked him why he looked sad,
He looked up and said he was feeling bad
That his parents had for him no time
Not even to read him a nursery rhyme.

He had for his company only toys
Which he shared with the other boys,
But no books had he with him to talk
When his parents went for a walk.

How he wished they could see his heart
Which had yearned for books from the start
BOOKS like he had often seen
In neighboring houses where he had been.

My heart went out to the little boy
Who had been deprived of tasting the joy
Of the wonderful world found only in books
Delicacies prepared by the finest cooks.

I took his hand and walked with him
To the stately mansion he lived in
And found it full of empty shelves
Empty heads caring for them selves

With not a thought for the hidden need
Of the little soul drying like a weed
Thirsting for knowledge not knowing where
To find it, because no one did care.

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