A saint once set about traversing seas and hills
with a book tucked under his right arm;
His robe brown-hued withstood a sudden storm
and helped him endure dreary chills.
Preaching to people that hate kills;
‘Never trust your instincts’ he oft used to pronounce,
and on occasions he’d announce:
Anger ruins the angered, puts them on heavy pills.
Fourteen nights he spent at the Himalayas great,
each night speaking about one world;
He touched topics good and bad, spoke at length of fate;
A ‘secret’ the last day unfurled.
‘We have our souls quite well covered
by a layer we all call body,’ he declared.
Then as if smitten by thoughts, roared:
Life’s uncertain, what matters is now, not how you fared.
He did cover the length and breadth of our planet,
meeting people of every kind.
His discourses drew large crowds, blew many a mind;
The saint no less than a magnet.
But when he chanced on a man who bet
that he was au fait with his acts.
The saint with wonder questioned, ‘You aware of the facts?’
‘Yes’, answered the man, ‘You’re a threat.’
The facts wreaked havoc that day like a storm;
That saint had never practised what he preached.
Crowds vanished after, for he’d lost his calm;
Yelled his soul with plight, ‘Boundaries you breached!’
Now dwells the saint in the present, my dear;
This story I think preachy men should hear.