Door To Redemption

He sat beside that door,
till sobbing from cry,
shivering on cold floor,
every when moon embarked sky.

Through cracks wind screamed,
and this door leads to salvation.
And in mind every sin streamed,
which one worthy of redemption?

Memory behind fallen curtain,
eyes weak, skin wrinkled and slack.
Heart plied with guilt and burden,
the hat, overcoat and trouser, all in black.

Alone, prepared for his own funeral,
counting for every sin, a night.
The door to him, not surreal,
and sat till the morning light.

A morning beside that door I see,
still, frozen, the man sat, eyes closed.
Smoke pipe in mouth, soul set free,
rushing of blood in veins halted.

Inside the door was chapel, red,
where once killing many, he fled.
Multitude of sins he owned,
every night over which he moaned.

His redemption had story to tell,
sins committed, but no more.
Every sin, ring church bell,
I count mine, you count your.


Baleshwar Singh