Apocalypse

With each blow, I go further away from you.
The man-made laws that bind you
To a symbol, a book,
Mindless rituals,
Ropes hanging from hooks,
Cold places of worship,
Slaughter of the sheep.

Why?
Why do they want to claw you out of my heart?
Inject fear,
Make me hate you, not love?

Who benefits
From every drop of blood?
Is it you or the machete maker?
What religion does he follow?
Verses meaningless and hollow.

“Buy my machete
Sharp and rust free.
Bring down the heads,
Lay out death beds,
Let’s start a murder spree.”

“Or you can buy my guns
It can kill Jews,
Christians and Hindus,
Even Buddhist or Muslims
Anything you choose.
Hurry! No time to lose.”

Can they not see the colours, My Lord?
That all blood is red
Be it of the Hindus’, Muslims’
Or that is dripping from the atheist’s head?
Can’t they hear what he says?
The lies he hides under his breath?

“I am the follower of Ganesha.
Money is my GOD.
I believe in Mudaraba
And carry the legacy of Shylock.”

“So, what will it be?
A gun or a sword?
I have one for every race,
Religion and creed
Every human being on board.”
“The ethnic-cleanser,
The language slayer,
The colour demolisher,
The human trafficker.
Just name it
I’m your well-wisher.”


Silent and still,
Ganesha watches in pain.
A statue with no power.
While evil continues to reign.

Who is he my Lord?
This machete-maker?
Is he the anti-God?
The final account taker?

He laughs!
His mouth an abysmal hole.
I shrink in fear,
I grasp for something to hold.

Where are you My Lord?
I look for you.
The more I do
The further away I go.
How will it end?
I don’t know.

Where are you my Lord?
The Apocalypse is here.