The Irony of Your Worship

You​‍​‌‍​‍‌​‍​‌‍​‍‌ worship my river with empty and folded hands like a divine altar,

You turn on your lamps and let them drift on the river.

You are singing hymns asking for your salvation,

During this, you are the one who suffocate’s my creation,

My River quench thrist as nector in your throat,

On other hand you throw your garbage into my throat.

You worship my river as a goddess,

But still treating her like a sewer as your success.

Can you not see the suffocating creatures in the river?

It is carelessness my dear child; it is the foam of my suffocating lungs.

How can you demand a blessing from a mother whom you are killing?

You bow before stone idols, offering them flowers and incense,

Yet you slaughter the living gods that walk beside you.

The tiger, who has the pattern of the night and fire on its body,

The elephant, who has the earth’s memory with him,

The little sparrow, whose song was your morning wake-up call.

Where are they now?

You have exchanged their lives:

for your trinkets, ivory, leather, nonveg cusine and greed.

They look at me with eyes full of ancient sorrow and pain,

asking: “Mother, why does your most beloved child want us dead?”

And I have no answer but shock and silence.