Of Burning Incense and Dying Candles
It is suffocating,
The acrid smoke of the never-ending burning incense in this temple of locked windows,
Where we kneel down with our heads bow to the ground,
Blinded from the tears of passed-down beliefs.
From the sacred house are the cries of despair
For the devils clad in holy yellow to stop,
But they won’t, with their multi-colour bloodstream,
And so we chant,
Let karma take care of it.
Clean-shaven heads swing from left to right,
With not-so-clean words falling from the mouths that used to pray.
Countless bottles of prohibited juice fall on the floor.
Still we chant,
Let karma take care of it.
Under the shining golden crown of the building by the river,
Where trust is mocked and found inedible,
Snakes slither on the glittering ground in that place,
With the name in the language no longer spoken,
Let karma take care of it.
The fumes smother all the other bodies.
There is no place for your saints.
It is not a sin to choke them with this scent,
To force their hands together and make them chant,
Let karma take care of it.
The sticks burn in the pot where little candles are dying.
The smell floats through the air, carried by the force of the wind
That is blowing out the last flickering flames of the shortening wax,
Hiding the rotten corpses, shoved into the forgotten pit where the lights don’t reach,
Engulfing the prayers of those to the different gods,
Seeping through the veins of blank believers, making them chant in unison,
Let karma take care of it.
So it is alright for us to rip off their veils of faith,
To push their children of love to the camps of selfishness,
But it is not alright for them to have a statue as decoration,
When we stuff our shelves with the little heads,
What really is karma?
Karma is not their inhumane soul swimming in Samsara, waiting for a punishment in the next life.
Karma is a sentence for murdering those who dare to speak up.
Karma is a constant reminder that blood is on their hands.
Karma is the fire of the remaining candles.
