Words lost their souls and turned into ghosts
that haunted the pulpits and public places.
The King is a great orator who conjures up
paradises of soulless words and gimmicks.
Verbal ghosts are hungry for blood
that was shed in the dark alleys of bygone days.
They travel on witches’ brooms between
Rama’s Treta yuga and the Mahatma’s Kali yuga,
Their forked tongues spitting poison
presumed as nectar by fortune-seekers,
the sexless witches impotent to make love.
They make war,
They make places of worship,
Where the gods are always hungry,
creatures of infinite hunger,
they swallow love and truth;
They are gods of words,
words turned ghosts,
ghosts that haunt a nation.