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.