SERMON

I have read long fragments in figures separate,

fissures appearing each time heralding birth

of a new Guru, a new religion.

It is my despair that speaks to refugees

running amuck in search of a home,

in their own homeland made violent.

And each breathing injects a scorpion.

It spreads a net to catch a man without pieces.

But such a finish good is not found

in a super bazaar where jeans are stitched

on payment for any size. 

It is a measured beauty on a canvas,

where a grain of rice peeps out and laughs

to tell a tale alive, without an epilogue.

Here one piece collects gathers dust on a canvas

drenched in colours of  separation to join a total Guru,

who sparkles on jewels.