A Child’s Lament

Minerva Thangjam *

Sometimes, more than often, I question the shape of you;
are you only a fragment of my ragged mind, a dream I’ve clung to when the nights grew too long?
are you there, weighing out my rights and wrong, measuring each trembling step,
with your scales rusted, waiting for the day when the trumpets wail and I stand naked before you?
or is it blasphemous of me to ask?

But father, my wrongs are older than my bones,
I’ve sinned since the moment my mouth latched to my mother’s breast,
since my bare feet kissed the softness of the earth, each bruise on my soul,
every breath, every thought- a sin stitched to my skin, a shadow that never learned to let go.

But father, where did you hide when I wept with my voice cracked against your walls?
where did you go when my hands folded in prayers too small to be heard?
where did you turn when my knees bled on your cold stone floor?
where were you when I needed a saviour more than a judge?

But father, believe me, I am a good child, I have tried to be good,
I can pay for my wrong with these trembling hands, gather them, hold them out for you to burn,
just let me belong, even at the edge of your mercy, as the flesh you brought into being,
for all my life, I have spoken your name like a secret I wished to believe in- a promise that you would come.

But father, I lay you down now, once and for all, for all you gave me was the hunger to plead,
keep your throne high above the clouds, keep your silence pressed against my lips,
punish me at your tribunal, let the keeper of your gates gather their blades, judge me as you must,
for I leave my faith at the foot of your throne, the throne you will never descend from-
not even when your child calls out your name.

Note from Poet: It is a reflective monologue that questions the existence, silence and mercy of a distant God. It conveys the ache of unanswered prayers and the agony of feeling unheard by a divine presence that demands devotion but offers only silence in return.