TO MY LAMP

Sadness sometimes sweeps me away,
when I think of my heartless act that day.
The incident I am about to relate,
can only be regretted, its late! Too late!

In my school days, when I was a child,
we had a new teacher, one timid and mild.
He taught us our English-none really cared;
And of his li'l cane we never were scared.

When he came in each day, his textbook in hand
Not one of us, ever bothered to stand
And show him a tiny bit of respect,
not even the class-teacher's pet, I suspect.

Of all our teachers we felt he was,
the blaisest, we all hated his class.
Never was his class, to us any fun;
Except of course, that fateful one.

Looking feverish and tired, that day he came,
but up our sleeve, we had a li'l game.
Planning to put our teacher to shame;
We replaced his chair, with one that was lame.
But for some reason his class was that day, different,
we listened to what he said, with intent.
Somewhere in him, we noticed a change;
A sad yet strong spirit, of fight so strange.

And then we came to realise our wrong,
for he was quite good at his job since long.
Us it was who never would listen;
Alas! Our folly! But too late by then!

For after a stanza of a poem by Blake,
tired from fever, a moment's rest to take,
Wiping his brow and closing his book;
On the crippled chair, his seat he took.

"Crash!" went the chair, he fell to the ground,
with roars of laughter did the class resound.
He was hurt, more than body his heart in pain;
Left that day to never come back again.

In the next few days we were given to know,
that his only son had died a week ago.
And yet duty-bound, to teach he had come;
And we heartless, thoughtless, our acts loathsome!

Today handsfolded, I beg on my knees,
O great teacher, forgive me please!
For in darkness your teachings, to me have shown light,
'tis owing to you that today I write!