Taleof A Priest Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

TALE OF A PRIEST

He naively moves about in traditions,
deep in a crawling mall
when structuring magic wands with vowels,
leads to defeat truth of a definite hunger,
as water salty visits land to choke,
and sing glory of a man who observes everyone
but here, nobody is solemn in pursuits.

A priest at a church works as a thief
in hard times.
One sees the holy man drafting a note
of neurotic suicide in the temple
when gods in stones shut eyes at night,
as priests go naked near the balustrade
facing the ringing bells wrestling in whispers,
with damsels chilly.

And women with twigs of flowers
and no germinated carnations extend
a plastered smile with incense and tell
that the naked priests are not thieves.

Godly looks with many zinnias in the eyes,
and fragrant roses in tray
emit infected dribble to alienate,
parsons and babas of asylums nay ashramas,
for they are no longer holy
as preaching gets murky with each word,
because orphans, widows and the elites
look unsound and decrepit.

He burns incense, rings bells and tastes marijuana
and chants mantras in a yajna but refuses entry to deities.

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