Poem - 09 March 2019, 12:19

I Pray

Morning bells of temples
The muezzin's first azaan
The toll for the mass
Monks' chants in the predawn;
prayers they say are
knocks upon the Divine door,
or at times an envelope
simply slipped underneath
through the gap below.
No one knows
if the door will be opened
or the envelope be torn,
if at all be read. And yet,
prayers exist. All pray.
Believers, thiests, atheist,
agnostics, heathens et al.
To whom is immaterial.
All pray.

Across the road,
opening to my tiny window,
Gnarly, knotted, nondescript
scavenges an old tree.
Wish I knew what kind.
It flourishes verdant green
all year while its roots
strangle a jumble of
boulders with their nooks
crammed with refuse and filth.
Every spring it bears fruits.
Those few short weeks
it lets itself be fed on, lived on,
filthed upon; poked, scratched,
pecked, hollowed, plucked.
Scavenged.

Every morning the breeze
ruffles its leaves in a music
which calls like
no bell, chant or azan can.
I stand immobile
at its roots moved to
invisible tears and
overwhelming gooseflesh
of its divine presence; and
I Pray.

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