I sat next to an old man in our village
He told me as story about a book
A book that is a blessing and curse to whoever uses it
A book with words that enslaves and frees
The book that makes a person feel powerful and also unworthy
The book with a law that deems you guilty at birth
The book with terms and conditions that are applied for a rebirth
The hypocrites quote what favours them
Others use it to shame people and to condemn
Power hungry people use it to control, subtle
Naïve people use it to continue living in their own bubble
It is meant to save us in times of trouble
But every chapter always feels like a complicated puzzle
Living up to what the book says is a constant struggle
It’s a book with a lot of secrets, yet they call it transparent
Those with the answers rule the world, they see us peasants
They are good with words, they always restructured the book
They turned it into an addictive drug, take a good look
They always get away with hurting us because the book says “do not retaliate”
They keep us poor because our ‘riches’ are not tangible until death
But for some reason theirs are here on earth
People starve their families to feed the authors
They were made to believe that they don’t have to work for anything
It blinded many
It is used as a weapon
It is misunderstood by the people who explain it
The more he spoke the louder the question in my head got,
“Why is it called the good book?”