In Bishnupur our horses do not fly
Like the horses in the Sun-God’s chariot
Their long decorated necks look pretty
But break soon and dissolve into the earth
Our divine Mother’s head broke in splinters ,
In her father’s uninvited house .
Our crumbling terra cotta temples are Godless
Our temple ponds are now washermen’s ghats
Our gods no longer adorn the Dance Hall
To witness the divine ras leela dance
We now have potato cold storages , everywhere,
And our listless young men are playing cards
Under the shade of the ancient banyan tree
Our horses do not fly these days.
20 Jun
