On a flowing bank of Mānavati

Was built a temple when the days were long

And in the emeralds sang twelve coëls,—

Sang not of yester-wonders but of life

To come. Was that planned in works of the year,

A majesty aglow in trueness? Strength

And speed moving together in the poise

Of infinity? Its thousand pillars

Sounding a thousand notes of perfection?

It must reach infinity’s manifold

In infinite moods, with infinite roars,

In each infinity another call,—

Alert vastnesses of infinity

Infinitely crying in the body

Of own self. Haste spoke of things happy when

Revealing sense gathered glad richnesses:

The old dead looks picked up newer seasons

Of thought even as ideas waiting

For birth companioned them; they drifted

Across tranquil fields, of wisdom, above

The blue solitude of mountain ranges

Where no human crudeness obstructs the sight

From everlastingness. Mānavati

Paused for a while and offered her worships

To Shiva. She cherished in her bosom

The will of the god, and resumed the task

Assigned to her at the start of vague time,—

To pour heaven’s streams upon providence

And make lands green, smiling with wealth of corn,

And to give fruits to trees, and songs to birds,

And fragrance of spiritual delight

To breeze, as though prosperity got wings

Of amazement. Day after day, and birth

After birth, free and heroic, her soul

Ran even through sad but meaningful realms

Of almighty death. There flourished her joys.

RY Deshpande

12 August 2004