A Tribute to the Teachers

For the divine image we see in you
The light we see in things we do
We would have offered you one hundred and eight dishes
But you are in the mood for experimentation
The pontification is crisply provided in short notes
The disciples are distributing them around
The lines in long essays we find
That divinity that makes you godlier
Yet all we want is to cope with reality
And all you do is to wait for salary
With fucking gratitude etched on stones
Any dissatisfaction on sand
I lay prostrate upon you
Swear in the name of dust-riddled books
Your hopeless guidance will take me places
And I’ll always remember you and your everything.