The Last Faith

The Last Faith

The three stumps of wood — the floating hope of
humankind on a rising sea.
Above, the vultures hover awaiting to feed on the
Carcass of human pride
The mangroves tremble, the fir and spruce
exchanging condolence
though entwined by fate to lead
each other to obliteration
My poem ‘A Noah’s Ark’
a refuge for he who offers his prostrated
obeisance to the left out green

The lost faith in the “world personified”
Or the Last faith in the Vedic prayer which sermons
to take shelter in the “Daru”
A thought torn and split apart
As like one who clings to the horizon either
immersed into darkness or fished out to light
As like someone deciding
Either to run into the popping crease
and defend the stumps
Or to run away and be stumped out
Eventually, the apprehensive mirror reflects
Either to recover what is lost
or to have believe in what would last.

To believe in thy white — thou phenomenal
Universe To have faith in thy black — thou the
Emptiness
To rely on thy red — thou garlanded
Passion
Wearing a brown of green, beholding
creativity — I preserve my
eagerness in your blue
Show me, guide me, make me
a primitive tribal to worship thou with trust
Lead me my wood thee “Saviour
of the fallen souls”
We too resolve to preserve thy eternity
and remove the loom what haunts the men
The Nero of the newfangled world
the father to Nino
who has been groomed to be
the Frankenstein
now discovers his descendant
to lead a mutiny against the
progenitor himself
The walls of Apollo crumble
the divine tragic justice befalls
on the mortals who were too
ambitious to be the Titans
Poseidon rising…
With no Leonidas left to desist
Nino at the Gates of Hell.

Only idolising the wood so indestructible
can one attain supremacy
Only comprehending the rotation of the discus
emphasising the change of time can
one help the mind
to cleave apart from matter
He who has no material hands and
feet but transcendental senses
He who stands on oblivion
He whose round eyes enlighten the
Stygian pitch dark
He who animates the deep rooting,
The climbing of airy stairs to embrace the sunlight
The spreading of boughs to offer shade
The bestowing of the boon of fruit
and flowers — all by thyself.
Inspires Mankind to be selfless
So that the wood may “pahandi”
to leave its rootfall everywhere

The white silvery salt of the
crawling desert,
now exhales the heat
Hunger and thirst hand in hand,
crawl below the sandy dunes to
be carried everywhere

Holocaust in the womb of greed
awaits the ice to melt
And famine whispers,
Land, land everywhere, with no
Green to see
Like the pagodas of Herod, the
temples will collapse with faith
being fake,
The church will be ruined,
with no confessions to make
and the mosque will have no one
to say “for God’s sake’’
All these happen when we live
just to take…

Every time I ascend the twenty-two
stairs, singing the song of the
holy hermit,
I rediscover the divine — how man
mingles with nature
and awaits the Day
when cataclysm will reunite
all the religions in the
citadel of wood
To taste the forgotten fruit of spiritual
Food,
which will be born out from thou
O’ stumps of wood.

My Lord that day this poet
will repose peacefully underneath
the holy shroud of your hood.

Destiny’s destiny in Man’s hand
The past slipping into the Seaman’s Land
The future will sprout from the
barren sand.
They will flee from the lands of fire,
They will march in fear from where
burns the pyre,
will be led by Moses of their time
will follow the far away ringing
of chime
To Babylon where the woods are
still dark and deep.
A gleeful haven for the innocent
sheep
To the land of midnight sun and lark
where the colours breakfast by nibbling
the dark.
Men queue at the brim of green for recluse
to return the wild the “stumps of wood”
A safe haven for sure and not
to lose
The final restoration of the last faith — an offspring of
My mood…