In The Name Of God (A Vague Call) Poem by Mystic Qalandar

They too call to God—
those who deny His name—
like the lost in darkness
crying to a stranger
whose face they've never seen.

The idol-house of every heart
is a carnival of wants:
some crown their god in steel,
edge his sword with blood;
some shape a rose-scented goddess,
gentle as dawn's touch;
others carve a thorned shadow,
a demon of fear,
and chain it to their soul.

Yet the same Lord remains:
Father to all, refuge to all,
who hears every whispered plea.
But when volcanoes of oppression
scorch His children's breath,
when rivers of innocent blood
stain the earth's cracked lips—
does His heart not burn?
Do those cries not tear
the sky's silken veils?

In this Kali Yuga,
hours of aid lie frozen.
Angels' wings hang chained;
mercy's springs are sealed with stone.
Has the light—
that once in Satya Yuga
gleamed like pearls on earth—
dimmed to a cold ember
in some desolate shrine?

History whispers:
When tyranny's thunder
drowned the heavens' ears,
prophets came—
softer than wind,
sharper than lightning.
They lit justice's lamp.
But when mirrors of truth shattered,
God's wrath fell not as rain—
but as deluge.
Civilizations, sand-castle frail,
vanished in the flood.

Are we still
ankle-deep in those same waters?
Is that why our sighs dissolve
like salt in the air?
Have heaven's gates narrowed
under the weight of our wailing?

When did God turn so cold?
Was it when we planted hate
in mercy's garden?
When we poured blood
into justice's basin?
And we—bystanders to oppression—
stand on the riverbank,
watching the sun drown,
blind to the wave
that licks our feet.

Why not lift our lamps?
Cut paths through the dark—
so our names might gleam
in time's gold script
before night swallows
the last flame.