"The Child Behind the Sacred Veil"

Sometimes I really think—if I had been ignorant, life would have been so much easier. I see too much, feel too much, read too much, and think even more. Maybe that’s my curse... or maybe it’s a blessing, because it gives me clarity in the midst of confusion. I don’t know what it truly is. All I know it's hurting me—seeing the pain, the chaos, the mess all around. My heart is divided into two parts sometimes I feel like disappearing and sometimes I feel like keep going. I still don't know which way to go all I know the pain I feel is too overwhelming—and that’s how this poem was born.

"The Child Behind the Sacred Veil"

I searched and searched through silence vast,

For truth that shakes both future and past.

To face the dark that gently hides,

Behind a smile where sorrow bides.

 

Polished shoes and silken wear,

Yet none can see what's truly there.

A frightened child, not beast, not wild—

Just broken dreams in the sacred pile.

 

He clings to relics, calls them pure,

Unaware they make hate endure.

He kneels to pain dressed up as grace,

While shadows dance across his face.

 

And still I ache, and still I cry,

To lift his gaze toward the sky.

To take his hand and help him see

The light that waits beyond decree.

 

But then I pause, and ask the air:

If even he—the wise one and the one most fair

Could not unchain a bound soul's fate,

Is my strength capable to liberate?

 

The wise man said be your own light,

And yet we choose to follow and fight.

Then I question is this how he felt?

What a price of kindness he and his disciple paid.

 

Would a mother raise the blade of grief,

To free her child through brutal peace?

To spill her love into the flame,

If it meant an end to hate and shame?

 

This pain is not for him alone—

It echoes through both flesh and bone.

In temples, streets, and battle cries,

Where humans trade their truths for lies.

 

And so, I search, I watch, I yearn,

For hearts that feel the world’s slow burn.

For one who dares to look within,

Beyond the masks, beyond the sin.

 

And maybe then the child will see,

That what he fights is what must be freed.

And maybe then, without a name,

We’ll rise together from the flame.

 

Or is it sacrifice the only door

To cleanse the soul the child once wore.

Would she perform that sacred rite—

To birth again the flame of, right?

Deep inside, the mother cries—

Will this be the time she scarifies a child or dies...

Or watches the child, with blood-red hands,

Walk free across the ravaged lands?

 

The question she asks the child, soft and grave,

“Oh, dear one, will you rise—or stay a slave,

To the very god who promised to liberate,

Or cut through the chains of fate and this time illuminate.

I posted this poem on my Instagram last week, but since many of my readers don’t follow me there, I’m sharing it here again. To anyone who tries to box me into some identity—labeling me as a friend or an enemy—that’s your projection. It’s coming from the identity you're clinging to. And that attachment is your personal hell. Your identity is the reason you feel insecure, afraid, and constantly on the lookout for threats. That’s the hell we all live in when we refuse to let go of who we think we are. I destroyed my identities long ago. The other side of identities is really beautiful. Thats why I am able to see things as they are—and say them as they are.

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