A Prayer for an End

I wake up as a Bedouin spirit moving from one milestone of pain to the other,

As I surrender to my fate, no more I ask for a why, rather how much can I bear?

The poignant truth of suffering is a fact, that doesn't require my naïve perspective,

While fools argue, and the wise preach, unable to bear this pain, a balm is all - that I seek.

Vacillating in pain, with sore red eyes, and blending devotion with fear, I call Your name,

For You are the giver of this itch, and the curer – thus, a Mother to both sinners and saints.

Tell me, does a mother wait for her child to die, and still not care to comfort, and just ignore?

What motherly love allows her child's heart to writhe in pain, grieve and moan?

If my unkempt desires blur my consciousness, reach out to me in my dreams,

For I wish to worship You with my purest love, and not with ritualistic fear.

I am dirty, loathing, abominable, but nevertheless Your child,

All my relations are lost, please don't leave me alone in this ominous lake of tears.

For even then, if You can't come, I request You to wield Your sharpest sword,

A blade sharp enough to sever my unworthy head, with a blow of least pain and effort,

Come Mother, please let us put an end to this suffering – through happiness or death,

For I stand afore Your pious altar, lost, ignominious, broken and afraid.