The land between the temple and the mosque

The wasteland
between the temple and the mosque
where the children play cricket
amidst the barb wires,
where the policemen hang their clothes to dry,
where the drug addicts hide in the night,
where the sharp glasses of broken bottles
remind the priests of the sinners,
where the goats graze on dry, sparse grass,
where the memories of past bloodsheds
has left a stench of hatred,
where the breeze does not bring the music
of lovers singing in the moonlight –
where the land awaits
the saint who would sing songs of love 
in the wasteland.
 
The wasteland
where the sound of the azaan clashes
with that of the temple bells,
where the broken stones of shifting loyalties
are used as proof of past injustices,
where the faithful prove their loyalty
with silent vows of more sacrifices,
where the officials come, once a year
to measure the land and verify
that no one has planted a rose shrub,
where the Sufi laughs a bitter laugh
and says that Gods hide here from men –
where the land awaits
the spring of love to burst forth
and reclaim the wasteland.
 
***
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About Abhishek

I will let the blog speak for itself...or, at times, for me. View all posts by Abhishek

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