The warriors sail off today,
To secure the liberty of our souls
From the dark spirits that haunt us,
Periodically floating in to take of us into slavery.
They load themselves into canoes
Bound for the land of the spirits across the River of Deathly Surrender.
Dear God of our ancestors,
Their arrows can’t kill even a spirit-watchdog.
Their shields can’t parry a stone missile from the spirits.
And that, if they don’t lose their lives to the bloody River.
(Pardon my swear-word, God!)
Would even having nuclear warheads better our fate?
(Rhetorical question, God!)
I ask for your help.
You supplied the Helmets of Salvation.
You forged for them the Breastplates of Righteousness.
You said they should wear the Belts of Truth.
You told them to cover their legs with the Gospel of Peace.
You instructed them to attack only with the Swords of the Spirit.
You provided the Shields of Truth as the only effective defence.
I know you have tried your very best for them.
Even now, I don’t know how to plead their cause,
Seeing as some have resorted to other means,
Relying on their skills and science,
And learning of other nations
Whose ways have not even helped those other people.
But, err… God
Hmm… Just, please, God…
Bees earn a living without your money.
They don’t need your hand in their honeycomb producing honey.
I told the early men at the dawn of earth’s first light:
To leave alone the laws of good and sane and right,
And accord them their due right.
Till the day they got bored and felt light,
And decided to put the laws to flight,
Forgetting that calamity is good’s brother;
And as good’s door they tried to batter,
They were hosted by disaster.
I was there when the kind Creator
Decided to send a kingly Saviour.
Now, I still speak, to the babies of this age
To run to One sent to salvage,
And escape the ultimate rampage.
I am seeing things and not “seeing things”.
I am committed to this obsessive act now.
It’s a new insanity peacefully residing in my mind.
At times the madness is asleep, completely at peace with itself and my world;
Other times the madness is industrious at its peak performance.
I prowl at the cliff and peek over the edge at wonders burning in this world beyond,
So magically thrilling, the fires have got be an illusion;
Or, symbolizing the intense power and energy flowing in this world.
It’s like something birthed from a Harry Potter movie about an enchanted city,
Else how can a market exist in the centre of a burning city?
Help!!! How could I claim to be in love with this sight?
How could I leave the comfort of my home every evening,
Unafraid of being possibly caught by some spirit-guards,
To come gaze at a market which bustles with the activities
Of trading in human souls?
Over here I see an angel with the halo on his head in a golden tuxedo
Pleadingly and aggressively (at the same time) haggling over the price of this human soul.
Just beside him is a demon dressed coolly as a business man in a dark misty suit
ALSO aggressive with the right mix of subtle premium evil intentions.
Each acting as though the other were not there; fully focused on the business at hand –the human.
The seller is the … HUMAN himself!
From this distance I can’t understand all that’s happening.
But when a transaction appears to be over,
The human follows either the demon or the angel out of the market
To his fate, having sold out his power of choice.
These activities happen everyday, every moment –
Humans selling out their souls and fates
To the angel or the demon
I am just an observer
With no memory of ever being in this market.
P.S.: Pardon my digression into the details of the activities
It makes it seem like a horrid place, but it’s far from that.
The pure awesomeness of this city is part of what has thrown me into this addiction.
And, who knows, I might get away with something out of this city (the day I dare venture further)
That I can show people as proof of its existence.