A bud blooms only under the Sun

Sun rays fell obliquely, glimmered on his forehead.
On a Sunday morning, he woke up hearing an altercation.
Palpitations, his nerves twitched; he knew what the noise insinuated.
Through the door ajar he peeped.
The vase he adorned, an 8-year-old
With a clunk, shattered into a hundred flashy pieces.
Behind the bed, he knelt down and shriveled like a snail.
Shouts that echoed and the words that cut deep, he shivered.
That irate face, his father’s.
He disdained at the lingering reek of liquor,
Curled up in fear.
Blue on his mother’s skin is not the blue
Of a blithe sky.
A cigarette lit up in the distance.
That smoke – suffocating.
Teary eyes, and he gulped.
On Monday, the next morning, he stood on his shaky legs.
Fumbled with words, and was mocked for being neurotic.
Sat on the last bench, oblivious of the people around.
A sparrow, as little as his courage, perched on his shoulder.
She whispered, “this cold world is not for you, I have the strength to carry you.”
With a tweet, she swapped her soul with his and flew off towards the farther end of the universe.

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