The Tale Of A Golden Gun Poem by Ravi Panamanna

(Here, I am not describing the political ideas of Col. Gaddafi but the rise and fall of his life from a philosophical angle. We have to learn a lesson from his life) .

The golden gun finally saved him not,
His own kingdom disowned him.
Stars and crowns fettered him down
And even a drainage pipe sheltered him not.

For four decades and more
Heavens were under his belt.
As a grand ring master
He met every growl in grand splendor.

His was an oceanic wave
Even the king became his slave.
And the wave finally swept
The very soil under his feet.

If the rule is by force,
The force will finally rule.
If the heavens are born out of storm,
Storms will finally purchase heavens.

And countless factions were born,
Groups began to fight.
Finally, it was a quest for survival,
Those misdeeds began to answer.

Then, for peace and lease of life,
Unto the world it was a long plea.
But the seeds were already sown,
The fate was already drawn.

And don’t we still hear his last voice,
An imploration for life?
But, amidst the roar of the mass
He finally lost his face.

And in a market place and a cold storage
He lay for days as a thrown away garbage.
What finally saved his life?
Those glittering decades or his golden gun?

Oh! my friends,
Authority is like a passing wind.
When the wind is gone,
Rains are bound to follow.
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08/11/2011.