Ours is a
country where trees grow tall
but men don't. But go to nay public hall, a few are tall, and
many pretend, the overall
picture doesn't alter. It reflects the rainfall
and its options. The middle class, already
small is ground smaller, the rich rarely play ball.
Yet this millenium's
tallest man walked here
harping on values and problems he held dear,
on the small, the poor, the weak; seeing God
in their toils and travails. Elsewhere men had
progressed in their pride, some good and great
scientists made long strides to discover and relate
hidden truths in nature's belly, but the prelate
found the church collapsing in a terrible blast, the world now
sees a blue sky overcast.
Our man, frail, small build, and his walking stick
saw Truth and lived it, and his love could prick
holes in a people's pride of five thousand years.
This world at large couldn't but lend its ears
to a feeble voice with the power of thunder
and we moved slowly from wonder to wonder.
of reason as the raisond' etre
of life, but he swore by the faith of Peter
who transformed stones into men, of Ram, Christ
and Allah, all parts of one whole. And we persist
with our follies that tend to make us mere grist
to the mill. With destiny we dreamed we had a tryst.
"Serve the poor !" That message resounds in halls
and hearts. A few sane, sparkling waterfalls vibrate with the
waves. Will the next century respond
to the behest, the spirit live, and travel beyond
the dirt and deadening stagnation of a wealth pond?