Too Young to Cry?

^{A young boy cries and no one asks why?}

What a beautiful morning to receive an invitation in the living mailbox of my being;

It was a call from the royal chambers of history, a beckoning to attend a symposium of thoughts;

What a radical diversity to watch races of feelings all gallantly dressed in the attires of a rich past;

Uber, what a moment to click the start button of my tear gland with an electric impulse of sight;

A beholding of a gorgeous thought smeared all over with a fragrance of pain, deep pain;

Soon, she approached me with a smile and took me for a walk through the woods of my past;

A strange morning indeed it was for a little child loved beyond love itself by a selfless mother;

To take a glance at his true jewel on bended knees of silent pain and sudden lameness;

Is this happening? My only mother precisely struck with a dart of stroke;

A supposed roadblock in an innocent neuron within the city of her precious brain;

Her bulgy eyes of red collide with my watery channels of sight, a message sent to me;

“I love you, son” remains the undeniable picture of her wildered countenance;

The doors of my ears flung open to the faintest voice in my cosmos “Call your Dad for me”;

My emotional adrenaline charged up, my body quickened by grief, and my feet put to flight;

Soon, a myriad of dark days and bright nights, my young heart in the cradle of daily sorrows;

“Why, just why my mother?”, the naïve cry of love echoes through the dimensions of time,

Indeed the universe wailed with a loud voice saying “this boy is too young to cry”.