Baskadia

With series of thought, in our hearts

Boiling and hurting

Like the settled pot

Emitting the steam of the angry water

All these years we spent, as saints

The decadence we despised

Truth we conversed

Yet we toil

Like foe of what we are

Our prayers seem

To be too lame to reach

The master, while our eye

Fixed to the selfish cloud

Hiding heaven away

And our voices unknowingly shout

why?

We hope for what other hoped

We wait for what the Corinthians

Waited to see

But the sign is to weak

To be noticed

And sinners with dinning dishes

Well wishes, and

Flourish minutes

We squat and we ask

Why?

Shall we be steadfast

In fisting and fasting

Shall we continue to

pray, when our previous prayers

Are prey to silence

When our wishes

Are damaged stitches

But our hearts are stubborn

And unwilling to turn

And why?

Perhaps, the blissful blessings

The sudden arrival

And the painful regret

If we sit at the sinners' table

And the table turns

Will our labour not worn away?