Pyre

I don't mind going to meet death, as I do every time I close my eyes, rather than going to your house and do pranam,

Even if I do so , it's simply because I am told my loved ones reside in you, I never see you nor desire so,

I was serene and in awe of you , after listening to your mighty stories, only to understand your unfairness much later, liar,

That child who frolicked in his garden of innocence, didn't know about a jealous pair of eyes, watching every move, to strike venom into his garden to turn it into a lonesome tombyard,

The man, still a child, roams lost, in his once garden, still searching his flock, to become a child once again, to smile and maybe to trust you ,

You once very conveniently made the sheep trust you, blaming Satan, hiding in shadows, to hide your venomous fangs,

The sheep keep coming to you, trusting the staff, unable to see the sword it is, to be slaughtered, for a satiating meal after meal.