Breaking the dead silence his footsteps roared,
I caught glimpse of his old form as he soared,
past me, across the floor of the house of Lord,
walking in beat to a song with divine chords.
He stopped as he reached the fence, golden and cold,
the only material thing keeping God beyond his hold,
He closed his eyes and on his feet he gently swayed,
and as the time passed by, I heard his words fade.
Maybe, he was wishing for healthier coming days,
or looking for the answers to his deep mental haze,
He could be asking for an easy painless death,
murmuring, in a foreign tongue, under his breath.
After a while, he turned around and walked away,
I followed suit but soon he took a different way,
Even as he staggered, with hope his eyes were glistening,
All I could hope was that as he prayed, God was listening.
It has been a while since I wrote this, but I can still remember it well – the warm afternoon, the quiet church, and the old man. The scene had made me think of belief and hope.
The act of praying requires surrender, and that too to the unknown. It requires trust and faith.
I can’t even remember the last time I have truly prayed. It used to seem absurd to me even as a child. I do close my eyes when I visit a religious place, and I do demand things of that being whom we call God; but even in the moment I am aware of how the entire exercise is in vain.
The cynic in me has always been apprehensive of optimism – it seems pointless; but this poem takes me back to a time when I was, in some ways, hopeful.