I used to refer to it

As Your world, earlier

Now I know

That you can have

Nothing to do

With this sickness…

The world is my doing

A projection of my mind

Why, I wonder

Do innocents suffer?

And if their suffering

Is a projection of my mind

What am I suffering from?

 

The answers don’t come easy

The pain blocks it all…

I recall the wise words

Of a liberated soul:

“Suffering…,” he had said

“Is the poverty of consciousness.”

The world, I begin to see

Stands as a battered ball

Kicked around for pointless goals

In the space of our minds

We live our lives

To settle old scores

As if that be our reason to be.

 

Consciousness… pure consciousness

Dear Asifa, just like you…

Has been diminished and killed

You suffered for our sins

The world stands before us today

A cancerous, malignant tumour

Grown out of apathy, pride and greed

I didn’t notice, dear God

That You had left

A long time ago…

Our green pastures

Where little children

Bring their horses to graze

 

Apparently, you’ve left our temples too.