On corners of busiest streets he’d stand,
To passers-by his magazine he’d hand.
His own money for printing he spent,
Delivering bhakti’s wisdom to public he went.
Not everyone a copy would buy,
But undeterred, again and again to try.
Not for selfish gain, Herculean effort,
Though constant rejection, of ego never hurt.
From his preaching so bold and brave,
Soon people across the world to save.
If not for him, today where would I be?
Mired in maya, so low the sky only to see.
Since without help, pain’s threshold to pierce,
To him I owe my best effort fearless and fierce.
Incapable am I, but debt there is to repay,
Spreading his message, I’ll honor him every day.