History is littered with mad men
Who saw everything as a rope and called it a string theory
And those who drew blood from blood sport
And called it a world war.
And it takes a man or woman with empathy
To make true, the kindness of our palms
To draw water from the callous eye
And grit is a rustproof body of armor
That draws courage from man. Like an oil well
That needs piling, through metal-rich sheets,
To extract. And just like oil, courage maketh
Man battle-ready to resists the tempests
With an unflinching heart
And in a rundown street in Calcatta, a woman made
Mattresses livid consciences with a cause
And cared for the dirty melting skin
Of lepers and bubble-warted paupers.
And she only asked for a prayer
A token of leverage for the belief-prone
Where you find a conjecture that can never be proven
By probabilities or odds, but transforms
A roulette game to a favorable practice.
And the legend of a woman still lives on
In spite of mud slung on news briefs
Of a Macedonian rose that had no thorns.
Kindness is just palm-works
Of a conscience that expands limitlessly
In the baton exchange between emptying and filling.
In the shortest distance between two beings
It is the polar chemistry between give and take
Of what the heart absolves. The unreturnable clause,
Of freeing from your palms, a token free of expectation.
A curio that appreciates at the point of exchange
To become a relic in memory.