The pleasant sound of Tungabhadra 

flowing behind the temple with musical pillars

where gods are worshipped no more 

Smooth silent rocks piled over each other

magically balanced by invisible hands

 

Little coracles slipping away 

on the ancient water path 

which was once watched by the leisurely eyes 

of the mighty medieval kings

who were blessed by gurus and gods

 

A monsoon breeze just cold enough 

to let me know it isn’t a frozen picture 

It’s pretty and I am breathing  

and it would be perfect  

if there was no history in my head 

I see the majestic ruins 

scattered everywhere

and let a gloom step inside me 

I wonder if I am the inheritor

of this mutilated beauty 

or just a clueless passer-by at a crime scene 

where proud protectors of cows and Brahmins

met their end  

 

Brown butterflies land on tiny flowers

Caucasian tourists burst into laughter

Round boats arrive at the river bank

As a light drizzle soaks my face and hair

in the city of victory 

that died long ago 

and was never born again

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