The Price of Maturity

I remember the first letter you had sent me
The postcard had on it, a watermark of birds, 
With their wings opened up, as if in their first flight
The message was in red ink, albeit only a childish rhyme  
Now, when I have, dipped in red and blue ink
Piles of your letters in my dim-lit study room, 
Here, gladly the birds haven’t yet learnt how to fly
And as I never opened the window lest the sunlight should peek in,
The guileless rhymes never grew old to be called poems
And so, from all that got twisted and perished in time,
I turned my face away, in complacency or in stagnation?
Your little piggy banks that never got filled, 
Often pierce the silence, as I take a profound breath
Maturity is overpriced, they say.