One cloudy afternoon I awaited a time to arrive
Squatting on the edge of a pavement
At one of the busiest temples India has loved.
One of the busiest temples India has loved
To seek relentlessly in times high and low
To overpower with prayers and woe
To submit offerings and in surrender bow
To bribe and beg and whatnots we’d never know
Thousands and thousands of them in an endless row.
Each one asks for something of his own
But collectively perhaps all seeking the same
Some form of abundance or another
Some form of peace or another
Some form of compensation or another
Until the very final breath.
What is the collective directed towards
If not the sustenance of this deficient chaos until the end of time
For centuries before and for centuries to follow
Thousands will still deliver the very prayers he’s today been submitted.
Is he bored of it all?
Or is it just how it’s meant to be
This organized deficiency he’s sustained over generations
Is what keeps him in that pedestal of impossible faith.
The thirst of the collective is never quenched
And the busiest temple gets busier each day
On the edge of that pavement that afternoon
All of life seemed a thin thread snaking its way
Through that sustained organized chaos.
(Not an atheist)
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