I will not dwell much on Him

But bow down with no whims

I am true son

And so have solid reasons

I am not what I am

But considered as his arm

Sent on earth

To win the fear of death

I have faith

That shall win over death

Take course ahead

And believe in what has been read

Simple man and made of clay

I shall not try for permanent sway

But rule over millions of heart

By merciful act and not simple as an art

So I will be called only disciple

Grown among the people

To be called human and individual

To play simple and not dual role.