Their sacred Goddess is back again
With grass flowers now showing up
Inside the river across dry sand bed.
A pristine body forms in white mud.
The dark maker has sullied his hands
As they shine against her whiteness.
Her many arms are stubs in reverse
With weapons yet to be put in them.
A fierce tiger is in making in a corner.
But the demon is yet to be conceived.
In plaster of Paris, a good takes shape
Earlier to fashion and shape than evil
With its several shades and tonalities
So difficult to create in a white purity.