To The One Who Watches his Children Suffer
Before you read this short poem, I would like to mention that this was one of my diary-entries many months back—one of those things that are written and forgotten. I found it today while flipping through the pages of my estranged personal diary, and felt like sharing. More than the momentary grief or suffering, it speaks of a thought, a doubt that has often troubled me. I am not an atheist, not a theist too in the sense that I don't worship anyone or pray daily. Which often makes me wonder—if god does exist, should that be important anyway? Is it only me, or the people who pray daily, who follow some kind of religious or spiritual routine are really happier in life? Maybe it is because of the meditative aspect of the ritual, that is bound to induce peace into one's mind. But talking of a "god" in real, practical, rational terms... how important is it to show that you love him, respect him or perhaps, fear him?
