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.