POEMS

The temple priest has rung his bell.
A cloud of smoke from candles and lamps
Haloes the Goddess, glowing bright
This beat of drums both maddens and dulls.

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

The Goddess, always staring down:
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 form not just this image of clay.