|
These plantain fruits hundred
I’m offering to the Lord.
Take this bunch in a basket
And handover to the priest.”
Thus spoke a fruit merchant
To his humble servant,
Who took it on his head
And to the temple went ahead.
He felt hungry on his way.
“What if I carry ninety?
Who’s going to count
And check this account?
So he thought and ate
Ten from the basket
And handed the rest
To the temple priest.
When the priest thanked,
The boss then heard,
What actually was handed
And to the Lord offered.
For each fruit, a thrash one,
The servant received ten
And with his bleeding skin
Said, “I’ll never do it again.”
The boss dreamt that night
And saw a pathetic sight
Of the Lord’s painful plight
With ten wounds, left and right.
“I ate ten fruits only,
Where’re the other ninety?”
Asked him the Almighty
Showing him no pity.
|
|