Creator of this world left her throne.
After hearing human disasters on monotone.
She wiped her tears.
She left her fears.
Tread into the forest.
Bare her self.
Where only she saw,
the scars that the world bore,
and the beauty in every pore.
That’s how life felt.
That’s how time would melt.
The sorrows of this world indebted.
In her mind she fretted.
“How does this world go on with these shackles of trauma and agony?”
it is full of hounds, hungry for money.
They want you for power, beauty, or both.
The idea of justice, they loathe.
“Why distribute fruits of justice,
When you can eat gold?”
What world is this! Where even love is sold?
Is this where Gandhi fought?
Is this where Buddha taught?
This is where even the truth is false.
This is where justice thralls.
This is where hope may only rise,
from the ashes of a burnt revolution.
Where we fall hard only to realise,
“we now rise, to beat our illusion.”
A poem on justice as the throne bearer of this world, her observations on the cruelty and greed around. The last line cover the rising, the death, and resurrection of hope. An original piece by me, Palak.