The houses of worship have grown too cold.
I can't get warm in them
with all their gold.
I leave the church. I look around.
Pitiful people do I see
listening to the sound
of children starving as they cry.
I feel cold
and I ask God why?
Why do they kneel and sing and pray
in places too cold
on each Sunday?
The answers I get are all the same.
They pray to God
in a ritualistic game.
Well, I pray to God on every single day
in my own temple
in my warm way.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem