the holy man with the holy thread,
stands proud at the temple door,
honey licked, saffron rubbed,
milk on a black stone poured,
jingle of the coins last night scored,
stumbles a woman to meet her god,
stammers a woman to make a prayer,
a widow she is. Impure!
seeks to cross the door.
her voice is the hum of blasphemy,
her faith a fake act.
entry to the temple denied!
he then turns to move in,
and hit head before the idol,
hoping the fine sculpted clay
will look after his prayers,
not knowing that,
the True Hearing God,
has long abandoned this temple!
(First published in Mad Swirl)