Your temple is glorious in the hotly winking sun
Your dancing Shiva proudly masculine
looking in from a garden tender with the musk of rose. You are playing with love.
Light from your golden murti teases and tricks in the eye of the mind
forms patterns with flashes of royal blue
peacocks in queenly procession.
There is richness in your air, pregnant with meaning
Lusty the visions of your saints and creators
their fruits in stained-glass windows, bosomed angels on painted ceilings.
Your people adore you so, they come and go
Waiting in line, ropes don’t hold them, bearing gifts, beating chests
They chant and wail, they weep, they flail
You look on, surreal, as your bells clang and peal
Sweet-tasting like berries your refrains attract, your rituals exact
with garlands, hushed voices, fires, ashes
At arati, flowing with grace, electrified by your energy
Merging in your current, toward your column of light
I am aflame.
The inner voice comes now, saying it’s me – it’s my turn!
I am your temple. I am Shiva. I dance in blue light hence I am.
That realisation at last.
© Millicent Danker
August 2004 / 12 May 2013