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The Prophet

Met a wise man once,
Not a chiseled, silver beard monk,

But a weathered limping man.
A prophet he started to narrate a tale,

Not a saga of god and ablutions
Nor sordid scripture of poverty around

Standing majestic on the banks of holy river
He whispered softly in my ears

listen to the melody of the flowing water
Touch the humility of the trees

Feel the burden of the Mother Earth
Enjoy the seven colors of rainbow above

Tell me about God, if you a saint?
Mischievous he started to laugh,

So he spoke the words of wisdom,
A hypnotizing  look and calm demeanor,

God painted on the canvas of nature
A beautiful portrait of you my child

The first word of God is Adam,
The last word of Adam is God

God can not exist without man,
For creation is the master of creator my lord.

Stupefied I stood on the holy bank,
As prophet knelt and kissed my hands.
 

 

 

 

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