Superstition Poem by Kishore Asthana

What manner of men are these
Who confuse others as they please
With their poetry and their prose
Which recklessly they impose

Love of nature, love of land
Love of self, I understand
But love of myths, strange and old
Is quite common I am told

Most men and women, too
Become child-like it is true
When their fears of demons dark
Makes their world cold and stark
Abetted by the orator's skill
As he moves in for the kill
These demons conquer many a mind
And convert them to their kind
And so, demons more are born
As another flower becomes a thorn
Thus the wisdom of mankind
Is rendered effortlessly blind
By these purveyors of fairly tales
When our own judgement fails
And we surrender without a fight
To these enemies of the light