The Saffron Army

The son of men and self-professed gods fight.
They strike.
Oh! what a noble deed, their women applaud.

Unaware, a ragged urchin sits.
He dreams of a moldy piece of bread.
He cant really tell when he last ate.

Well, the holy men care not.
Greater matters are at stake.

God! resides in him, in this residual, smelly urchin.
And he sees you , looks at you.
From his throne.
Seated on the cushion made of compost.

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