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