From under the roof of rituals.

We throw the earthen statues of a Lord
Carved in competitive sizes,in our frenzy,
Into the waters,raving our ritual ecstasy.
We steer the statue of yet another God, 
To float festively,in a rare river every year,
Or take him out from a temple tank near,
After forty years,from Time's wheels,rear.

God is love,who is potently there,everywhere,
Running round the clock,from heart to heart,
Throbbing all the while,as the dynamic of life.
Conventions make a conch of concocted beliefs,
Or a continued march of our committed faith.
God for sure,is glowing in the sacrificial sparks,
Raising the flames into serial,salvaging fire arcs.

A sacred soul is solely,the sanctum sanctorum, 
Where God gets rooted,never to make an exit.
It is man who frequently fumbles for fortitude,
And keeps on relocating God from place to place,
To hide his helpless search to trace his own roots.
Rituals are either the symptoms of life's assertions,
Or remissions of past flaws,to offset life's desertions.

Hiding his revulsion of roles,under the roof of rituals,
Man writes off his accounts,with his forlorn parents;
He repeats hitting God's steel,with his devious dents,
Holding a trendy torch,to show his dubious spirituals.
Genuine goals gleam not with a show of pompous piety.
Rites have to ride through the routes of saintly sobriety,
Fueling serene love,truth and service,driven to divinity.
P. Chandrasekaran