The Unclothed Truth

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In homes of dust and spinning wheels,

Where threads of courage and patience weave,

A frail body bears an unbreakable soul-

Half-naked, yet clothed in fearlessness.  


He walks barefoot into hatred’s storm,

His hands unarmed yet breaking chains,

No crown, no sword-only truth’s silent flame,

Holding breath in the face of empires’ reigns.  


From Christ, he learns patience-

To endure the weight of suffering,

To hold pain without returning hate,

A quiet strength that pierces silence.  


From Krishna, he learns courage-

To stand unmoved on the battlefield of conscience,

To face the thorns with unwavering resolve,

And reveal the divine in humble acts.  


He never shouts the truth-

He lives it, slow as forgiveness,

Sharp as duty, heavy as silence.

In his stillness, a voice more profound than cannon fire.  


The world shatters its mirrors-

Calling truth dangerous,

Wonders why it bleeds.

Yet truth moves lightly-

Across crosses, dusty roads, and woven threads-

Outliving every empire that seeks to bury it.  


Different paths, one flame-

Different names, one eternal truth.

He stands where empires tremble-

A half-naked fakir, a living testament:

That truth is the garment that never fades.

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