Astray

They are stray and religion is away from them,
A path may be meal, a path is a way of a diadem.
The religious men sought a sweet air,
When did they reach a heavenly tool to be aware
Of God?
Was this a righteous tool, or a wheel, or was it turbines?
To gods it mentally understood why you should pray
And why you should die, this was them, with diadem.
My path is grand and turning like a war,
Fuel of a belief is combusted to make an action of the heart.
My religion is grand, I love the queen with the rich-life,
She reminds me of the Paradise and what it was to me as well,
Like a sound or utterance, reward from godly behaviour;
My religion is correct and my life is lovable.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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