No More Messiahs

No More Messiahs

They came

barefoot in dust

words like banners stitched to the wind

their eyes filled with fire

their voices full of ancient thunder

They crossed deserts and mountains

whispered in caves

shouted from rooftops

each claiming

“I am the light.”

“I am the way.”

“Follow me.”

And we —

we followed.

We carried flags — green, saffron, crimson —

as if colour could cleanse the blood from our hands.

We tied crosses to our foreheads,

draped ourselves in crescent moons,

clutched swords like scriptures.

We believed.

We screamed their names into the sky,

built altars from bones,

and etched prayers into the trigger of a gun.

In our wars,

we called it salvation.

In our victories,

we sang hymns soaked in the blood of strangers.

Everyone claimed their messiah was the true one.

They believed their war was holy.

And still they came —

more messiahs,

more golden pages in the books of men,

more faces in stone,

more shadows in our hearts.

But the devil —

ah, the devil did not die.

He changed flags.

He changed languages.

He wore their robes,

memorized their verses,

and laughed —

laughed as we marched

deeper into the fire,

chanting freedom,

spreading ruin.

The earth —

she cannot bear it anymore.

Her skin is cracked from the weight of prophecy.

Her rivers run red —

not from miracles,

but from memory.

And now,

when another voice says,

“I am your savior,”

she groans beneath our feet

and whispers:

“No. No more messiahs.”

Inspired by the Hardeep Sabharwal's Hindi poem: Messiah