The temple is beauty cast in flowers and dust
A concentrated thought by a chisel in a spike
And a still beauty being explored by creatures
Existing for their death’s immortality benefits
Where they lie in niches they project horror,
Darkness of soul in bodies thought and lost.
A man- lion -God lies concentrated in stone
A horror of stomach pierced by denied God
In stone pillar of chi|d’s love remonstrating
A father’s egotistical demon ripe for a death
A picture of God’s anger, a child’s God love
A stony concentration, exquisite stone child.
A music of times is concentrated in temple
As ether of a sky lost to a myth and history,
The wind still blows in music of transience.
Death is not here nor there but in doorway.
(a visit to the Ahobilam temple of Lord Narasimha, the man-lion God who slew Hiranyakasipu the demon who refused to accept Vishnu as God)