Gandhi

The Quiet Flame

In the dusty streets of Porbandar he crossed the tide,
No trident, no banner—just a boy, a quiet pride.
His thoughts like candle‑whispers rose above the sound,
In every syllable of satyagraha a love was found.

He bound a loaf of salt to hymns of moral fight,
The steamy Himalayas watched as he declared the right:
“No pillage shall wield the touch of human heart,
And tyrants learn, in silence, the price of their art.”

Through alleys lined with cotton and in the jail’s iron cold,
He spoke of truth with simple stories, a silver hand of gold.
The colour of his tunic matched the desert’s low lamplight—
A stubborn, faithful compass kept the world in good delight.

The world, in silken silence, turned to hear his quiet song,
The Parliament of Peoples tuned the bells of hope along.
From the meandering Ganges, to councils far and wide,
His legacy, a gentle fire, left the world to moulder on.

So, in the quiet hush of London’s market stalls,
The proverb of his creed the hush of Britain calls:
“To walk in truth’s own pace, the fiercest act of grace,
Shining through a dust‑laden face, the quiet flame that lays.”