Siddhartha, one fine morn, <br />Was walking in the garden, <br />And saw a wounded swan <br />From the sky falling down. <br /> <br />Near the bird, he ran fast. <br />It was hit by an arrow shot. <br />When he pulled out the arrow, <br />He couldn’t control his sorrow. <br /> <br />Blood dripped from the wound, <br />As he took it from the ground, <br />With his silk scarf, he dressed it. <br />He felt, as if he was hurt. <br /> <br />By then, Devadatta, his cousin, <br />Came and claimed the swan, <br />“Well, I shot this swan. <br />So, give me, it’s mine.” <br /> <br />Siddhartha said, “No, I’ll not. <br />While I’m trying to save it, <br />You feel like killing it. <br />It’s no good on your part.” <br /> <br />“It belongs to the saver, <br />And not to the killer, <br />So, it’s mine, not yours. <br />I’ll not give you this.” <br /> <br />With a disappointed look, <br />The cousin went back. <br />The prince took care <br />Of the bird thereafter. <br /> <br />Later, he released the bird, <br />When it was fully cured. <br />It was the first occasion <br />What life was, he saw then. <br /> <br />No wonder, such a man <br />On this earth, was born <br />To save all suffering mass <br />Or even one life in distress.”<br /><br />Rajaram Ramachandran<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/siddhartha-s-compassion/
