Thursday, December 3

The Kali Temple

On the banks of the pious Ganges
stands an old consecrated Kali temple
Symbol of my faith, the she- god
last refuge of dropouts and derelicts

The road to the temple is paved with
cobblestones, beggars and lepers
On another side, rows of shops stand
entice seekers with the smell of flowers

The staircase that leads to the precinct,
is weary, trampled over ages, by sins
The precinct is dark and dreary, walls
grown moist with human suffering

There is an old tap in one corner,
to wash off the worldly wise dust
The sacrificial lamb are washed
blood, that flows into the Ganges

The rickety bell hangs in the middle
tired of ever growing devotees
The bell’s age old ritual: to herald
the deviants awaiting her blessings

The sanctorum, where she stands
is a contrast to external austerity,
Yellow lights festoon the entrance
The mother, herself, a rare beauty

Her eyes, red, blaze with fury
A silver spear adorns one hand
a demon head, another, ungodly
a blood stained tongue hangs

In her angry incarnation, Kali
revels in her nudity, she hangs
a garland of severed heads,
the only semblance of fabric

Outside smoke rise from huts
The mellowed Ganges flows
Inside, an unlikely goddess,
keeps busy, being a goddess.

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