We Only Preach

By Mohit Kumar

Folded legs, concave ribs, Hands on chin and face light dim.

A childhood for the grab, through the eyes so empty.

The sight so tempting that lies beyond their reach.

And we are here to preach, only, as I write though this,

A hungry bird sleeps on the floors but never cries,

Under the roof of skies, where he was meant to fly,

But we always preach and fail to try.

By Mohit Kumar