One who isn’t resplendent
in the sheen of plaster of Paris
clutching symbols of detachment
holding mudras of knowledge
shaped in ceramic; make me a god
who carries only a stick on which to lean
through long, dusty roads
under dry clouds of evaporated soil
whose only vibhūtti is the trace of fingers trying
to wipe away the mud, in vain.
This god frowns
whether it is in determination or disapproval
there are no scriptures to tell us yet
and what it wants of us is unclear, for it
holds no sermons and the priest
needs time to interpret this silence.
All the chants we have are for the old ones
this god’s name doesn’t quite rhyme
to make a convenient substitute
so, for now, it is just the stick going tãp-tãp
pushing the flowers out of the way.
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