S. Chandra Sekhar
Until every child
Enters the World
With a candle in hand.
So to kindle, in every land
The searching-heart-bruised
Strife will be rife,
On matters trivial,
And on and off
Human wile in its vilest
With the sharpest knife
Cuts the cords of amity
When every God
Weeps in helpless self-pity.