HARBINGER

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.