Strange Are Your Ways, O’ Human
We light candles to remember the dead,
But blow them out on birthdays with pride.
We remember the dead with a glowing flame,
And celebrate birth — without knowing its aim.
Bravo, O’ human! Bravo,
What a pity, O’ being, lost in illusion!
The nail bears the weight on the wall each day,
But people praise the picture on display.
The unsung tool that held the grace —
Ignored, while glory goes to the face.
Payal costs thousands and touches your feet,
But bindi, humble and cheap, graces the crown —
The very crown of your head, so high —
Yet we judge things by price, not by why.
Two books — the Geeta and the Quran — rest in the same room.
The scriptures remain silent, side by side; they never fight, but sit there in peace.
But people who fight in their name,
Have never read them — what a shame!
The ignorant fight with poisoned pride.
One who speaks words as bitter as salt is a real friend,
But the one who speaks sweet words like sugar
Can be a flattering sycophant.
History is witness that salt never gets
Infested by ants and worms —
But sweets always do.
No one likes to walk the righteous road,
But all are ready to tread the unrighteous path.
The bootlegger needs to go nowhere,
But the milkman roams —
House to house and street to street.
Milkman is questioned about water in his pail of milk,
And yet, you drink alcohol mixed with more and more water.
O’ Human! What curious ways!
You question the pure and praise the wrong!
Call a man an animal — he flares with rage.
Call him a lion — and he swells with pride,
Forgets, in pride, the primal truth —
That lion, too, is just a beast.
Your ego blinds your inner eye —
To beast and man, both born to die.
