A child saint

A child of three, no toy or lullaby

Brush in hand, with color and paint

He draws and paints, each one a masterpiece

An Indian village down south is witness to his dexterity

Who guides the baby hands

Fills the mind with thoughtful thoughts

Such wisdom and world view he possesses

Which even the wisest don't command

He is an artist par excellence

In whom divine works, through and through

Playful and innocent like other children of his age

But in understanding by comparison, the scholars fail

He creates his works in quick succession

In a great hurry he is , for a messenger waits at the door

To take him along to the heavens, where is His throne

There he returns soon, for very short is his sojourn

A total of seven years in all he saw

When childhood is at best and still raw

By his wisdom and works, he awed

The small world of which he was an integral part

Undoubtedly a child saint extraordinary he was

Fortunate are those who saw him close

While he played and worked his works incognito

In undisturbed obscurity, and largely unknown!