His feet are beautiful who walks barefoot;
and
not the one who walks with shoes.
His
hands are beautiful who mucks in mire;
and
not the one who counts the qwerty keys.
His
lips are beautiful who sings the song of lament;
and
not the one who sings the song of vengeance.
His
eyes are beautiful who is blurred by the blurry world;
and
not the one who shines with glittering eyebrows.
His
back is beautiful who is bruised with marks of scourges;
and
not the one who brushed in the gym.
His
heart is beautiful patched by scars of thorns and marks of lance;
and
not the one who wraps in the coat of gold.
It
ain't a fashion parade, nor a fuller's museum.
It
ain't a bundle of joys, nor a trap for prey.
It's
he who tills the land, feeds the hungry.
It
is he who walks miles and miles with feet uncovered.
It
is he who feeds the multitude with a grain of seed.
It
is he who is bruised and broken with lashes out.
It
is he who is lynched for your glory and pride;
murdered
and killed for your whims and fancy.
Where's
my freedom and my will?
Am
I your servant to wash your dirty linen?
Am
I a burden to you and all?
Have
I no dignity, right, equality and sovereignty?
If
not here, should I be there in the nether world?
Questions,
Questions, Questions a thousands
and
none to answer.
Let
me be silent now, drink my tears and eat my spittle;
For
I am happy in my mother's lap.
Let
me look up to the sky and say,
"I
am coming, accept me and my offering."
Fr. Raju Felix Crasta
