The
prayers had long receded
Into
foul alleys of Oblivion or Karma's bliss,
Half-shut
eyes, unprejudiced,
That
demanded evidence of His,
Inquiring
of the boy- deceased.
The
white cloaked priest, the saffron saint
All
resigned to 'Thee',
Your
wishes, your want- they chant-
Tell
'em to open their eyes and see,
Breathe
the air of logic and not lament.
Some
complained it was his past life,
Others
spoke of his parents' misdeeds;
How
would I influence my fortune,
One
that would be reaped by others' seeds?
Would
I choose to work
If
it were to be evaluated not any soon?
Prayers,
albeit fewer, have golds flourishing,
The
stakes are high, hopes diminishing;
You
gotta respond before it's late,
Before
they stop invoking your name.
