Come flowing from the fakir’s shanty
Are sounds of praise for our Lord
sounds of music floating gently:
“Praise the Lord. Praise the Lord”.
“Everyone here has had his saying
but in silence here I revere.
Tears of strangers I dry dearly
All my comforts I do share”.
“Don’t say oh men “Mine is holy
what is yours too should be mine”.
Praise the Lord Oh foolish wise men
Even the breath you take not thine”.
“A million gold coins, A thousand acres
you have gathered rich man, for what?
Only six feet shall be your grounds
And even that I truly believe not”.
Touched and crying I now leave here.
The fakir’s words burnt in my mind.
Sitting in his shanty singing.
I leave the fakir far behind.
Shall I live to understand
those fakirs words now in my head?
Or shall I go now to those six feet
That belong to the church instead?