Flowers are not art but science of beauty
Where they sit softly on a walled picture.
Here they are not taken apart but add up
To a canvas of beauty in all its fragrance
And camphor flame is raising its dancing
Hands on the glass covering gods frames.
And taken apart they are flung at pictures.
Their beauty adds up to the wall’s picture.
The gods stand in peace, in bow and arrow
Their necks heavy with old painted flowers
That will never wilt nor smell less in beauty.
Flung flowers will make up our mountains
Rising in glass casket, like far off snow hill
Where a three-eyed Shiva softly meditates.