The man scoffed derisively.
Every time I bowed before an idol.
Or crossed myself.
Looked up at the sky.
Rang a bell.
Offered some flowers.
Lit a candle.
Knelt in supplication.
Read from a book.
Listened patiently and interestedly to verses
I couldn’t understand a word of,
in a language alien to me.
He mocked me.
When I ignored the do’s, revelled in the irreverent.
Broke a few taboos.
Lusted. Cursed. Ate the forbidden. Drank the forbidden.
Knowingly and guiltlessly.
Questioned. Dismissed. Argued endlessly.
Sought alternatives. Rejected them all.
And continued with doing what I always did.
“How weak is your faith that you flutter from flower to flower,
blasphemy to belief, sacrilege to spiritualism,
dipping, sipping, never settling, flitting on?”
“So strong is it that I know all these flowers in this heavenly garden are His
and I can partake the nectar from them all, knowing He’ll make each sip
taste of pure honey.”