Below the leaky thatches, with rags to ward off the biting cold the distressed with reeking wounds, squat and
pry to God.
When thousands get killed in the crash of jets, in the scuttling ships down the depths of oceans, in floods, quakes and tornadoes, a dead old man of a remote parish is accorded a religious and elaborate funeral.
The sybarites waltz and carouse in the decorated gastronomic halls while the orphaned ghetto kids scavenge the waste bins for a morsel of left over food.
When grueling penury, diseases and death cause havoc on man,
billions are earmarked for making lethal weapons to kill each other and rockets to scour the skies.
Billions are lavished in architectural marvels for God to sit and distribute justice, compassion and love while the homeless, naked hungry millions-the so-called
sons of God- sleep on pavements in the company of mosquitoes and abandoned dogs.
In the air-conditioned palatial chapels amidst the waft of fragrance the sumptuous clergy kneeling on hassocks in spangled vestments pray to God.