It was a herd; they were driven daft.
The traces of the gone were the holy landmarks.
The plastered road was followed;
The sepulcher was considered hallowed.
Blindfolded; they felt only the shoulder in front;
The scurrying journey was only thing they ever learnt.
They shouted loud about the solace;
This journey in life was their Pilgrimage.
It was dark; but they thought it’s the only scene;
Anything conceived colored was a dream in a dream.
But, HE felt an itch and as he touched his eye;
Found a thick cloth tied that had made them blind.
He untied and the vibrant colors rain;
Every step was genesis of thousand lanes.
But for ages, THEY had followed the same route;
“For Solace; It is our pilgrimage”, they hoot.
He was elated to find the TRUTH;
Tried to make them believe in any way he could
The holy queue was now dismantled;
By this Blasphemy the clan was rattled.
He was brandished as a pariah atheist.
Thrown away from the queue, his holy journey ceased.
He looked around and chose his own path;
He made roads; faltered but then learnt new arts.
At last he made his mausoleum;
And then rested in his divine realm;
And then as time passed;
THEY found HIS path.
It was plastered and new.
And from the cult originated another queue;
HIS vault became THEIR sacred aim;
For solace; their pilgrimage; now they claim.
1 comment:
Cool... I have also often felt that we follow the plastered path without knowing the cause or without knowing the options..... Maybe we do have a blind fold over our eyes that we need remove.......
You've phrased all beautifully
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