Gandhi

Man or myth, some ask

For they cease to believe,

That behind those wrinkles

And that fragile mask;

There lived a soul

Too just, too kind,

Like an ocean vast.

Clad in white

Against a dark, hopeless scary night,

His people, his country

Were his greatest strength;

For them, he would travel

Whatever length.

His silence was his warcry,

His surrender his great fight,

For men are myths

And he, an emotion-

Perhaps his countrymen’s dearest.

Without any arrow or bow,

Great dictators did bow.

Knelt, knelt before his brilliance.

As radiant as the Sun

Burning, burning like a thousand

Golden urns.

He wasn’t the waking

He was the rising

Bullets did not kill him,

A scrap of metal hardly ever

Dented a philosophy.

But, he did die

No, death was a mere destination

A passing moment

It was hatred

Hatred had struck

The final blow,

And his lips called for God,

To have mercy

On those blinded

By mistrust and violence.

For what they were doing,

They didn’t know.