Those Honey-Tongued Defamers

There, they - the culprits

Of the stampede

At your sanctum sanctorum,

With their signature ungodliness,

Etched eternal injuries,

Yet prospered, as if

Blessed by Your Majesty!

Here, we - elbowed, cajoled,

Bruised, bled, yet braved

The serpentine queue

To beseech you blessing all,

Amassing ache and agony

At last!

Is it a mortal sin

To envisage You, the Almighty

Resurrect Your creation?

Or on our poor souls’ part,

To tread into Your responsibilities

Must earn us a rebuke,

Inviting paleness to our body,

Gloominess to our mind?

Hapless, helpless -

How long must we wait

To see them – the culprits – perceive Your

Presence, power, and permanence,

Against the grain?

How long Your silent followers

Must fight on -

An uneven, lonely battle against

Your honey-tongued defamers,

Left scot-free to riot on?