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A still silent temple
of cold white-washed walls
veneered with ice and moonlight
A small cone of flame shudders
in the inner sanctum
A treacherous Eternity
Joss-smoke hangs
thick slumberous acrid
from the shrine that flaunts
Monoliths of terrible powers
burning with many colours
with abysmal mouths
and vast flaming eyes
that devour all worlds
The Rudras of destruction
Unsounded
the temple bells hang on their mast
like a string of paralytic ravens
Night has gathered on gaunt sleeping houses
and low spreading rain-trees
Beneath its dun lead
the town lies prostrate
The bleached stone Mandala
Erects on the night-desert
like the Taj Mahal of Shahjahan
Frangipani trees hulk like hills
perforating dark-violet skies
with frosted blooms of glass
And the stark quiver
from the cricket's throat
becomes the poetry of the muddy earth
by Dr. Ahila Sambamoorthy
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