They prayed for our silence, for darkness to grow,
For thunder to drown every truth we might show.
They prayed for the cold to seep into our flame,
While smiling like saints and cursing our name.
We prayed for their peace, for their children to sleep,
For joy in their harvest, for roots planted deep.
We asked for the light to shine on their hill
But not every blessing is met with goodwill.
They prayed for our fall, for cracks in our grace,
For shame to take hold and hollow our face.
They masked their malice in words soft and sweet,
With poison poured out at the altar’s feet.
He thought it was quarrels, just kin growing sore,
Old wounds reopened, a household storm.
He knew of the spite, the cold little games,
But never believed they’d pray death in his name.
He sensed something foul, but swallowed it whole,
Still showed up in silence, still played his role.
He smiled through dinners, though trust had gone thin,
Not knowing the knives were already in.
But prayers alone don’t bury a man
Sometimes a hand completes the plan.
No blade was found, no blood was spilled,
But something unseen had willed him stilled.
Was it a whisper? A poisoned cup?
A midnight blow? A setup?
We’ll never know, just what was lost:
A soul too kind to count the cost.
They said, “He slipped away” , as they wept without tear,
While hiding the hands that drew him near.
Their robes were clean, their lies well-spun,
And their god, it seems, was the only one.
So now we ask, with hearts gone still:
Which god heard prayers that begged to kill?
The one we called with voices worn
Or theirs, who feeds on the broken?
If faith is fire, then theirs was ice,
A cold transaction wrapped in vice.
We prayed with love. They prayed with will.
And that is how their prayers could kill.
— Fika’s Voice