Tell us you prophets; tell us you seers, you soothsayers;

How long we have to wait for the Dawn?

What do you foresee about it?

We are frustrated, yet have hope in our hearts

About the glorious golden morning, we fondle

And yearn in our thoughts, relentlessly.

Tell us you Creators of this universe

If the grandeur of that morning is

Still far away, and inaccessible.

The edifices of faith that were orchestrated

Through eons from the inception of this terra firma

Are in ramshackle, with the tempest

Of civilization, through its aggression and assault.

On this marching runaway runway

God is standing debilitated as a destitute,

Exhausted and played out bereft of his powers.

Justice and charity, equity and truth have grown

A beard and are meditating in penance.

The chariot of spirit driven by Lord Krishna delivering

The ‘Gita’ at Kurukshethra battlefield,

Has lost its track, gone berserk and toppled down,

Sinking in the mud of imported culture.

In this battle of ideologies and faiths stand

The Homo sapiens without a battledress, and unarmed.

Philosophy and wisdom placed on the pyre,

Are burning in flames and benevolence and humanity

Are lost eternally, in human minds.



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