They see a man, wearing saffron,
Sitting alone in the varendah of a broken temple;
I, along with the temple, am a relic to them,
A past,
Significance faded to obscurity,
There to be looked and frowned upon.
They shun my beliefs and question my faith,
"Why do you believe?
How do you believe?"
They take my silence for cowardice,
My credence as foolish.
"I am a dandelion", I say, head high in pride,
"And He the wind that destroys my body,
Makes my soul infinite."
Their laughter demeans me.
Yet I stay strong,
Believe me, I do.

But sometimes,
On beautiful, lonely nights,
I just stare at the rock that you are,
And cry as faith eludes me.