True to the appellation, Ayodhya,
Place without war,
Those that live in the town—
Hindus, Muslims, and others—
Wish simply to be left alone.
Even after all the blood has flown
Down the Sarayu,
The Mahants and the Mullahs
Inhabit an intimate zone
Of piety, not known
To the marauders who claim
Ram for their own.
Their conch is blown simultaneous
With the Azaan.
And their cloth is woven by fingers
Conjoint in a weave
Of one wholesome humanist sleeve.
They need neither temple nor mosque
For their social or spiritual task.
Those that seem to worry most
About god and seek a grand
Temple to be built
On desecrated land,
Not only have blood on their hand,
But have more blood on their mind.
If only we remembered how often
The Lord has warned us of their kind.
And those that keep the realm
For now equivocate with crooked
Sophistry, thinking how best
They may remain at the helm.
O poor poor people of India,
Whose lives are never an issue,
How I wish you
Would rise for once from near and far,
And pour dust on those
Who have made of faith and trust
An ocean of tar;
How I wish you made impregnable
Your sentient loves,
And wrought a shield of sanity
That no breach allows.
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