We clasp our hands and pray,
fretful woe not held at bay.
We mumble incantations
of intricate intonations,
and all we want to say,
(to the mute idols
with droopy eyes,
and idle smiles)
is that we are not okay.
we want our strife allayed,
our misfortunes slain.
Indeed we are thankful,
but in truth we are never grateful.
We beg you to emancipate
us from the agony of our fate.
We will be better, we will strive,
this we promise through tear-filled eyes.
Do you hear an answer my friend?
Do you see your catastrophes end?
Is there a hand from heaven above
reaching unto you with love?
Is there a quiescent touch
comforting your fluttering heart?
I beg you, acquaint me, if the divine plays a part
in truly salvaging your trust,
for, my dear friend, spiritually, I am but bankrupt.
Images by Shinkita & Aidal