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Two thousand and eleven marks the date
with certainty, this fifteenth of September,
the day I was born, but that it must state
the birth of Christ, twenty-fifth of December,
considered as an estimate these days,
but real enough, as touch my flesh relays.
Many are the facts we proclaim today
that have their origin in terms of myth,
the garden of Eden, might one not say
expulsion from which, manifests forthwith
our present world of division and strife,
whose tangibility, that former life.
The Mahabharata and Ramayana
fuse myth with reality, they become
history, to deny which is denial
of India’s heroic roots, and the sum
of values lived today, good over evil,
the fight against corruption, just as real.
But hark back to the subtlest of them all,
in ancient times assumed as absolute,
the foundation of myth, yet itself real,
real as existence which it is the root,
God, as I was born out of nothingness,
Going back, with all things, I am your witness.
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