The Baby and the Old Man

Here I am O’ my staring country home
Look… do you remember who I am?
Could you glance into the far past?
Of a young boy naïve, careless.
Cheerful, always happy on the farm,
Like the singing breeze.
Acquired and owned for playing,
And as well as the acquired ones,
This boy, climbing the trees,
Would neither get annoyed nor feel tired,
Gathering the branches of trees,
Sharpening them with swords, very sharp
Entering into mud of different kinds,
Overwhelmed with joy and happiness
Fearing not those who would see him ,
Nor having any fear of what they would say.
To you he was devilish so that it will be said,
Of him by people that he was devilish
I am that same boy whose
Life is here now.