Belief

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.