 Mahatma Gandhi (1931 picture, from Wikipedia) Born October 2, 1869 Died January 30, 1948 |
MOHANDAS KARAMCHAND GHANDI No desire to paint a halloed Saint Prompts the writing of these lines Just a wish to show that others might know What was with us in our times? He trod the stage amid the rage Of hate, prejudice and greed. With a feeling of care for those in despair Degraded by custom and creed And lived for years mid the futile tears Of the poor bereft of hope. Gave of his health, refused great wealth Shunned more power than the Pope. For it was he, with eyes that could see The ignorance and the shame. Yet realized that in all, both the great and the small Is a spark, one can fan into flame Heard the words that sprung from those gifted tongues That would be so easy to believe. Knew their intent, so sly, was but to mask the lie Created to deceive. No pride of race was in his face; No earthly treasures in his hand. The World cared not for what he taught. They did not understand. The driving need to teach the creed To love our fellow man. This was the unseen yoke, beneath his cloak He served throughout his span. This frail little shell, that hid greatness so well Paid the price, that self-sacrifice brings. Thus the World suffered a loss, that was hid in the dross Of the everyday juggling of Kings. To our eternal shame, this fragile pane Through which the light of truth did shine Was shattered and broke with a brutal stroke In the madness of our time. A white cloth sheet, a bowl of rice for meat; A mud hut for a home. In the dust of the street; at that young man's feet Died a King without a throne. Forgive he cried before he died And let the man go free But even this his dying wish Was just not meant to be. This man from the East was no part of the Beast Nor, could the Harlot count his name And after near two thousand years, We find the World is just the same. Beneath India's sky, piled the fuel high And placed the body there But no amount of smoke and flame will ever purge the shame Of a World that did not care. And I think of Ghandi many times, Of how he lived and died And though a bullet took his life Was he too not crucified. By John A. (Donny) Gore Mahatma Ghandi once wrote that were sevens sins in the world:
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