Once upon a time
In an Indian village of little fame,
Was born a boy
Who put his parents to shame.
Neither would he play,
Nor laugh nor cry.
Just wander the woods by himself,
And study the night sky.

His parents worried for his future
For his little hands carried no lines
"He is doomed", said the palmist.
"We must ask more learned men,"
his worried mother opined.
They asked every palmist they could find
But all sadly shook their heads and said,
"Without the lines we are blind!"

Then arrived the Old Wise Man
from a village, near by.
Battling torrents of rain,
savouring feeble sunshine,
at long last he reached them
in good time.

The saintly man begged a sip of water,
from the weeping mother
"Why do you cry Devi? Pray, tell."
The mother pointed to her son's empty palms.
The father explained everything well.

The saintly man looked at the boy,
then smiled and said,
"Men are born,
Men will die.
Fortune favours the brave
And those who try.
Worry not O Mother!
Let your tears dry.
Your boy is blessed
His soul soars high.
His hands aren't empty
They are full of truth.
His will write his own lines,
His end he will choose."


© Leela