In Search of Salvation

Behind the folds of these withered lines,

Behind these wrinkles carved by time,

There lingers a shadow — vague, unnamed,

Of souls once breathing, now defamed.

They walk among us — those unseen,

Once vibrant hearts, now trapped between

A life denied and death delayed,

By hands of power, cruelly betrayed.

Once they dreamed, once they prayed,

But their dreams were bought, their hopes mislaid.

Long ago, they were buried alive,

By tyrants who thrived as others strived.

Buried not beneath the earth,

But beneath the weight of stolen worth.

In markets of slavery, they were sold,

Their youth, their fire, their stories untold.

Promises were made

Oh yes, they were made:

Of freedom, of dignity, of shelter and bread.

But promises turn to curses fast,

When made by hands that never last.

Their palms, once open to the sun,

Now hold the flames of what’s been done.

Tiny lamps of death were lit,

On trembling hands too numb to quit.

There were no roads that led away,

No dawns to break the endless gray.

Just hunger’s fire — a cruel, fierce god,

Before which they lay, bare and flawed.

So they wore the shroud of slavery well,

And called their living body a shell.

They burned their youth upon the pyre

Of promised peace and false desire.

They let their tomorrows slowly die

To dream that their children might learn to fly.

But when life itself is torn apart,

What joy can bloom from a broken heart?

Now they carry corpses — their own remains,

Still breathing, still bearing invisible chains.

Not dead enough to find release,

Not alive enough to claim their peace.

They march with bones grown far too old,

With stories that will never be told.

Hoping still, in shattered tongue,

That someone might right what was wronged.

Perhaps…

Perhaps some nectar will arrive,

A drop of life to help them survive.

A taste of truth, a cup of grace,

To lift the veil from their hollow face.

They are thirsty, yes — not for water alone,

But for the kind of breath they’ve never known.

A breath that frees, a breath that heals,

A breath untouched by greedy deals.

Longing not just for a loaf of bread,

But for a life not bound by dread.

Not for riches, not for fame,

Just the right to live without shame.

They stand in lines of silent prayer,

With eyes that scream, "Is someone there?"

Not to save them from the grave,

But to make their dying somehow brave.

And now—

As the skin begins to crack,

As memory weighs upon their back,

As the night grows cold and endlessly black,

They seek not gold, nor glory’s track.

They seek moksha — freedom’s true name,

Not from life, but from this shame.

To die a death that makes them whole,

To rest at last with an unchained soul.

Let not the gods wait on high,

While these ghosts wander beneath the sky.

Let not their deaths be vague and blurred,

Let their silence become a thunder heard.

In search of salvation, they roam still,

With blistered feet, with quiet will.

Their hopes stitched into every scar,

Their gaze fixed on a distant star.

They are not gone — they never left,

They breathe beneath this cloak of theft.

They cry not loud, but if you hear—

Their voice can shatter stone with fear.

And when you pass a wrinkled face,

Know, you’ve crossed a sacred place.

Where life still fights to find its grace,

And death awaits with calm embrace.

For only then, when truth is known,

When justice carves its name in stone,

When freedom flows like sacred rain—

Only then will they feel no pain.

Only then will they be free,

Only then shall salvation be.