Poems

The pencil is blunt.
Oh, his grey hair
Needs to be sharp
So that he looks good.
Who will style his hair?
Me, of course,
For I am the hair stylist
Of the pencil.
I take out my tool.
A sharpener.
This sharpener
Is like the tools used by a hair stylist.
And the pencil is sharp.
It can be used for writing.
Oh! Its hair has fallen down.
Now it’s bald.
It tries to cover its bald head.
But it can’t for it
Doesn’t have hands.
Who will do his hair transplant?
Me, of course,
For I am the one who
Does the hair transplant
For the pencil.
I take out my tool.
A sharpener.
This sharpener
Is like the tools used by
One who does hair transplants.
And at last he has hair.
Sharp, grey hair.
But the pencil will come back
After some time,
For after somebody writes something,
And it ages,
It’s hair becomes blunt.
Or it becomes bald.
It will come back to me.
For I am the one
Who takes care of the pencil’s hair.

Dance with the waves,
Move with the sea…