By Gene Romolo
Life, burning low like candle flame,
Ruthlessly has been snuffed out.
The red-stained, traitorous hand of Cain
Has reached and slain another,
Who taught and lived the law of peace
And brother’s love for brother.
Gandhi, India’s saint has gone,
Has left an earth distressed,
An India with freedom won,
But with a bleeding breast.
Will India revere her dead,
By scabbarding the sword,
And walk by light her leader shed
To heal a wounded world?
Even as Gandhi’s heart throbs ceased
He lit a last great torch for peace.