In the far lost kingdom of the pop, everyone was thirsty and every lake dry.
From an unknown place came a black, singing his tales of hope and love.
To the draught he was the sacred drop, and to see him sing the oldest did try.
For he sang of what we lack, and he moved like I can't say how.
Every time the music struck his back, no eyes blinked like a striking vow.
A lakh day later, shall a man believe,
such a person in matter, on this earth live?
No one spoke of treason, no one of love and royal shame,
none wrote sonnets and plays, like him was none before.
He was born with a reason, and with his words he scored fame,
He did on every feeling glaze, and in penning was he a lore.
His words had their own place and his books their special store.
A lakh day later, shall a man believe,
such a person in matter, on this earth live?
No one ever will trust, and complain I am in dreams,
but I don't wish this history rust, so I write it in the empty reams.
(Disclaimer: Poem theme inspired from the quote - http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/452888-on-the-occasion-of-mahatma-gandhi-s-70th-birthday-generations-to )