Not atop a hill, nor in a religious place,
Not a leader, nor a sage in a hermitage,
Not a king, nor a healer prima facie,
But in my Son, lies my Guru ! ...
Because I am mad about women
I am mad about the hills,'
Said that wild old wicked man
Who travels where God wills.
'Not to die on the straw at home.
Those hands to close these eyes,
That is all I ask, my dear,
From the old man in the skies.
... Read complete poem