Mahabalipuram

The open mouthed waves howl

Hungrily at the Shore Temple

The fames Paggodas are unsheltered

Under the desert sun,

Wind on the wings of Time

Attacks like locust swarms

The wonders of Mahabalipuarm

Rooted to the ground stood

I before this small shrine

On the bushy slopes neglected

On the walls in the nurky inside

There are unfinished carvings

Like a piece of cloud in the sky

Of irregular form, ever changing,

(inside the dark vault of mind

An ancient memory is disturbed).

Familiar faces of a sculptor

In loin clothes. Though busy

With chistle and hammer

His hands fail to carve out

Anything intelligible

His graphite black body

Glistems in profusion of sweating.

His eyes open, open wide

In wonderment, body trembles,

A rare glimpse of the unamanifest

Wherefrom evolves all forms

Shaped and to be designed.

Coloured by his bleeding fingers

They come to life on stone.

Blood on my aching fingers:

But when the stains have disappeared?

(Image: The shore temple in Mahabalipuram. Source: Wikimedia)