Haru, they fondly called him, their only one
Long awaited child, they loved him dearly
Did the best for him. All he wished for, had he.
The father, a pious man, head held high
Respected by all lived he. Days went by.
Gained wisdom as he mused while he tilled day long
Mother with her son, fussing all along
One fine morn, the farmer woke up musing
Found his only son ill and dying
Brought the best doctors, did all that he could
The boy died but no tears did he shed
Grieving mother grieved the more seeing him
Unmoved. `Your only son, young, full of vim,
Fate struck him but you grieve not, cry not !
Heartless you are, a stone's what you've got !'
The gentle farmer replied, `Hear my dear,
I am puzzled for whom to shed my tear
In the early morn I ruled a rich kingdom
Had six strapping princely sons with wisdom
And valor to win the world twice over
Then woke up to find them gone for ever
Now tell me dear, whom should I cry for ?
My Haru or those sons valorous in War ?'
This a dream ? That true ? Or the real is beyond, far ?
Truth flashed on her too. Dim brooding she quit.
Life with scenes of waking and dream is but
Tip of the living force solid and spread out.
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