Brink of Blasphemy

t h e b u r n i n g a n t h e m (POETRY)

I am afraid.
My heart aches, my television aches,
Our beloveds are taken away,
Like offerings
In the promise of a painless afterlife

God sits under a Gulmohar tree
Watching big men acts so small
His glided binoculars giggling,
As every mortal is reduced to a merchant.

There is a pyre in my backyard,
brother
I fold my fears into flowers every night
Invent new jokes to tell my frail mother
While an anthem burns under my tongue