Poor God Poem by Mohammad Younus

Poor God,
His name drifts in the tumult of storms, tethered to banners He never chose, twisted into shapes foreign to His essence. His name, whispered once with awe, now blares through loudspeakers, a rallying cry for deeds He would never call His own. He, who shaped humanity from a single word—'Be! '—and wove us into a tapestry where no thread could boast dominion over another, bears the bitter irony of a world unraveling, each thread pulling away in a furious claim of supremacy. Still, He reminds us:
'O mankind, indeed We have created you from a single male and female, and made you into nations and tribes that you may know one another. Verily, the most noble of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you. Indeed, Allah is All-Knowing, All-Aware.'

The God who breathed life into dust, who entrusted us with the sacred duty of tending to one another, now watches His gifts turned to weapons. Hands meant to heal now clutch greed, build walls, and shatter bridges. The voices of prophets and poets—crying 'Love the stranger. Shelter the orphan. Protect the widow. Embrace the vulnerable.'—are drowned beneath the roar of fear, hatred, and indifference.

He hears the damning chorus of xenophobia, sees refugees turned away, the poor mocked, the earth wounded. The God who painted the sky in infinite hues, who gave us tongues that dance in countless dialects, who scattered us to marvel at our own diversity, witnesses a humanity that shrinks in terror of its own reflection.

Poor God,
He asks for love and offers freedom, but must watch us twist both. His blessings, the rain and the sun that fall upon us all, are hoarded behind walls, branded with flags, claimed as exclusive rights. His gifts become bartered goods in a world of scarcity imagined.

Poor God,
Who aches as the creation He called good fractures beneath pride and fear, under the burden of neglect. Yet still, He waits. Still, He whispers through the leaves, weaves hope into the sunrise, and lights a flame in the hearts of poets and children. Still, He loves. Always, He loves.

MyKoul