Some days, when the world presents itself to be particularly darker than usual, Gandhi feels hopeless and small. To overcome this feeling, he reads the following poem by Mervyn Peake, and has a few hits from a hash pipe.
“To live at all is miracle enough.
The doom of nations is another thing.
Here in my hammering blood-pulse is my proof.
Let every painter paint and poet sing.
And all the sons of music ply their trade;
Machines are weaker than a beetle’s wing.
Swung out of sunlight into cosmic shade,
Come what may come may the imagination’s heart
Is constellation high and can’t be weighed.
Nor greed nor fear can tear our faith apart
When every hear-beat hammers out the proof
That life itself is miracle enough.”