Ask not my country Or state. Ask not my trade Or job. Ask not my tongue Or region. Ask not the colour Of my blood. Ask not what i like Or dislike. Ask not what i dream Or pen. Ask not if i have An orchard or a flower garden. All are irrelevant! Ask what i eat And what i not. Ask what i wear And what i don’t. Ask if i a visitor To holy lands. And if not satisfied Ask the last important one, “What’s your name?”
My difficulties lay deeper. It was more than I could believe that Jesus was the only incarnate Son of God, and that only he who believed in him would have everlasting life. If God could have sons, all of us were His sons. If Jesus was like God, or God himself, then all men were like God and could be God Himself. My reason was not ready to believe literally that Jesus by his death and by his blood redeemed the sins of the world. Metaphorically there might be some truth in it. Again according to Christianity only human beings
A gifted versetile writer who writes excellent stories and poems on the invisibles, pariahs, margins, aged, weaklings of our society. A rising star on the literary firmament.
“Your story Undersell left me with a lump in my throat, so did your poem, He also lights candles.”
"A finely honed observational piece recording the minutiae of everyday life. Rendered with the author’s customary poetic aplomb suffused with a Borges like quality of the mythic."