In Hardwar, amid the pilgrim swarm,
The returned exile roams the streets,
Appalled by the credulity, hypocrisy and dirt
Going by the name of religion.
Can one man, one soul among myriads,
Redeem, through virtue, the sins of all?
A spinning wheel turns in a prison cell
As Gandhi meditates on his sorrow:
If his penance were perfect,
Would India’s violence not cease?
The world thwarts and destroys itself as before,
Yet, staring into the wheel, he smiles,
For he cannot but see love in its revolutions.
Leading a pilgrim host to the salt shores,
The Mahatma marches through villages
And towns, drawing crowds to his side,
A frail little man, more powerful than armies.
To the sea! In joy and triumph, to the sea!
Let this gathered salt be the sign of hope.
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