By Srinjay Chakravarti

The temple priest is ringing his bells.
A cloud of smoke from lamps and wicks
Haloes the Goddess, glowing bright.
This beat of drums both maddens and dulls.

The incense burns: so heady the musk,
Our senses flounder in its flood.
This endless chant of sacred words
Soon drugs our lips, while calming our minds.

The Goddess, always staring at us . . .
Her painted pupils cut through smoke
And read the secret thoughts we think.
We somehow feel this within our hearts.

To Mother, we know, we bow and pray --
Her formless form this image of clay.