A Vulnerable Lion in the Mist: The Sovereign's Restraint*

We often think of love as a force that demands, conquers, and takes. But what happens when love chooses the harder, quieter path of restraint? In this deeply intimate piece, the loving rascal navigates the agonizing space between intense desire and honorable patience. Blending raw stream-of-consciousness with profound theological parallels, childhood longings, and vivid pop-culture imagery, the poem captures a soul waiting on the misty edge of divine timing. 

**A Vulnerable Lion in the Mist: The Sovereign's Restraint* 

*Manoj's Al Gult Version*

How I wish the authorities would hand me down

A paper saying Manoj has no sin,

And girls would stop staring at him.

But the hour is not in my favour. 

I hoped for a lioness, ready to confess

Her love for me

—even if it meant a little shaming.

A bold woman full of holy valor,

Ready to fight for a love honorable.

Precious she is, and I dare not drag 

Her name through the mud,

So, I did not confess. 

Or did I just as I write?

In her honor, all my heartfelt poetry.

I care not for empty words of consoling.

They said, "If not this, you can try the other."

Humiliating, is it not, for a lion to forgo his lioness

And go after some ancient flesh? 

I paused for a minute, reflecting perhaps:

If God chose Judas to die and Jesus to betray,

Well, the story will end on a funny note still.

But betrayal, and not self-giving love,

Will be the virtue of the day. 

Bold as a lion, Jesus clung to the cross,

Knowing fully well if he came down when enraged by onlookers,

The cross would look like a hateful vindication

Of the Son of God who came down

To massacre Romans and Jews.

I will still love the story, maybe write a few lines for its glory,

But will the lioness be happy if I were to take her away forcefully,

Instead of patiently waiting for her to admit her love—

*Vul -ner -able*? 

What if, I reasoned in that particular season,

Jesus thought, *let's let Judas die in my stead,

I can save my bride, perhaps woo her with my woodoo magic*?

What bride would pride in a groom so frail

That he cannot dare defeat his enemy—

Pride, hate, evil, rage—

With humility, love, justice, and calmness? 

The cross is a difficult path, an uncommon way.

Even those who hated him to death left astounded

At how nature responded:

The earth quaked and the sun hid his face,

The Centurion kneeled to say, "Hail, God's Son,"

Seeing the way he gave his life for his unwilling bride. 

When I look back at what could have been,

I feel so clueless.

Even so, I'm like the crucified king.

A lion, lying flat on my bed,

Dreaming about a union only God can bring,

When my spirit will enliven the heart of the living. 

The soul I hope to touch with my innermost,

In a state of active rest...

I see it like the coke float.

The *I scream Soda* I cherish so much.

Her *Al Gult* spirit foaming up as the vanilla melts

Into the cold brown cola,

To create a frothy, bubbly stuff

Like Dairy Milk Silky—the chocolate I crave

To hug the fluffy stuff. 

When I saw clouds dancing under the airfly,

I used to ask, "Papa, can I walk on it?"

Giggles, he would say, "Why not, my boy,

Let the plane land first."

Eagerly expectating the cloud underneath,

I hurried the line, hoping my air shoes might help me float. 

Was it a melting cloud, or my feet feeling heavy

After a long run, as I return?

Not knowing who, what, and where I touched.

She's so beautiful, a creation perfect—

Made by Kudrat's miracle. 

*Poiema! Poiema!* I cried out with Paul,

As I read Ephesians.

I dared to pen a shorty on her anatomy.

Bubbles said it is *Zaalima* that you sang,

*Poiema* was not yet.

To be or not to be. 

I decided to step into the misty path,

Unclear with fog so heavy.

Will the lioness break silence?

Will she come out of her shell

To acknowledge her sweet affection for my humble person?

Or is it just a myth I live with,

Until Jesus Christ reveals what's next.

*The Classic, Elegant Version*

I long for high authorities to sign

A holy scroll to wash away my blame,

To bid the watchful world at last align,

And clear the heavy shadow from my name.

But hours are cruel, the seasons turn away;

I sought a lioness of sacred might,

A bold confession in the light of day,

A valor born to claim what is her right. 

Yet honor binds me; dare I drag her name

Through dust and mud to satisfy my pride?

I chose the silent hearth above the shame,

And let the secrets of my soul abide.

Or did I speak? These lines upon the page

Are monuments of verse to her design—

A quiet refuge from the passing rage,

Where love is treated as a thing divine. 

They whisper comfort, hollow and unkind:

"Forsake the path and seek an ancient prize."

But could a lion leave his realm behind,

To see through broken, compromised eyes?

I paused to ponder on the sacred tree,

If Judas died and Jesus had betrayed,

The story ends in bitter comedy,

And virtue's golden promise is decayed. 

Bold as a lion, Christ endured the cross,

Enraged onlookers mocked his dying breath;

Yet coming down would mean a greater loss—

A vengeful triumph over Rome and death.

He bought an unwilling and stubborn bride,

With calm, humility, and peaceful grace,

While nature quaked and sun refused to hide,

And Roman soldiers knelt before his face. 

So like that crucified and silent King,

I lie defenseless on a lonely bed,

And dream of unions only God can bring,

When active rest revives what once was dead.

My spirit seeks her soul, a quiet spark,

Like sweet vanilla in a cola stream—

A frothy, bubbling magic in the dark,

As rich and silken as a childhood dream. 

I trace the clouds I once desired to tread,

When Father promised I would walk the sky;

But now my heavy feet are turned to lead,

And mist and fog obscure the traveler's eye.

She stands a perfect masterpiece of grace,

The *Poiema* that Paul so boldly sung,

Though voices mock the beauty of her face,

And heavy silence chains my quiet tongue. 

Into the misty path I take my stride,

Where fog is heavy and the road is dim;

Will she step forward, casting shells aside,

To speak the love she holds within for him?

Or is this myth the only truth I hold,

Until the heavens break the silent spell?

The future rests in stories yet untold,

Where Christ reveals what time has refused to tell.