Where's the Lord
Weary and lonesome
I wandered around to search for my Lord.
I was, however, unable to find the Lord
neither amongst mannequins in the busiest pedestrian traffic,
nor the amidst of majestic cathedral surrounded by the windows
with sacred images colorfully arranged on the stained glasses.
I roamed the dark street with candlelight in my hand,
but I found you not in the alley
between heavy-eyed buildings that are short and tall,
or the back lane between the mosaic of sleeping old and new houses.
I found you not in the empty market place
where the crowd returned to their home long ago,
carrying the baggage of stale stories
wrapped in the money traded with the uncertain tomorrow.
Exhausted from search of the Lord
I came and sat in the bar to empty the glasses,
however, the Lord was not in the glasses I emptied.
For I was tired of looking at the pile of glasses I emptied,
destroyed it, run out from the bar,
and stepped on the middle of the night’s moonbeam
and followed the footmarks the Lord left for the lonely souls.
When the wind rises by a solitary riverside the moonbeam ripples to wane,
and when I see the ripples of moonbeam the Lord comes:
to the field once I was visited and forgot a long ago,
to the field other side of the river where broken reeds stand,
to the abandoned field where the heap of sadness became the sands.
When the Lord crosses the river,
though no word is spoken, He stands by me
with open armed to welcome this wandering soul,
with full of tears in his eyes for the sake of this lonely
and deserted heart.
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