Thanks! On 8 September, I’ll turn sixty-one: A poem 

Thanks for telling me, all along, that God will step in 

On 8 September, I’ll turn a wistful sixty-one, with patience! 

I had so much faith and belief, but now I’m done 

thinking that all this tireless effort for justice was won 

Through these decades, treachery, against me, only got worse 

I did my duty. How I suffered till my nerves burst?! 

I’ve begun to realise that this long-drawn sacrifice 

was floating on a belief on a sea of fantasy and lies 

I can only see my enemies, on the podium, playing 

I have a foothold on a ledge, which Prakash Saint Paul is shaking 

with his chicanery and treachery and all his salivating 

You can see that the fruits of my sacrifice, Saint Paul is always pirating 

You think that my causes only deserve selfless losses 

You think that with evil, the wave of destiny tosses 

How supreme is the Supreme against such prevalent evil? 

I often had no strength at all, but did my duty by sheer will 

I think I am eternally without bail like a fixed nail 

No one has the guts to nab treachery by its tail 

I am the one who keeps fighting to no avail 

This lifetime and past and future ones. Should I turn pale?