Mad Man Of Naranath Poem by RAVIKIRAN ARAKKAL

A century ago there roamed
A man with dirty, torn clothes,
Round the villages and cities,
People called him the mad man
From Naranath, his birthplace,
Who always laughed with joy,
With no miseries and family
Ties to tie him down,
Laughing away the grief
Life brought to people
In their fortunes, ups and downs,
The fame of various guys
And whiling away his time
eating with offerings
He recieved from kind ones.
Most of the days he rolled
A huge round rock stone,
Up the hill and rolled
It down with great applause,
Likening it to the work
carried on by people
To attain money and fame,
Which collapsed like stone run.
Many worshipped him
Like a devine messenger,
And called him to stick
A gods idol on the sanctum,
Which he agreed readily,
But spat beetle juice
On the sanctum where
The idol sat glued forever
Inseperable, which made
Him even more devine,
The madman of Naranath.