Inlayed into the bitti,
Forever forced to be,
To be a lasting imagination
Forever forced to be,
To be the outcome of elaborate and yet refined strokes,
Of an artist’s brush
Generously full bodied,
Generously beautified,
A vision recreated,
To a solidified form,
Externally admirable,
Insightful to only a few
Not just one;
There are many,
They adorn the bitti,
They float along prastara
Trampled upon the bhumika,
Frozen in time
Living in quite reticence
Expressions frozen,
Of moments in time,
As testimony to an era,
A lasting tale,
Retold many a time
Voices from the past
Whistle through the air,
Amidst sounds of ghungroo,
A sudden outcry of voices,
Screaming out from the cold plaster,
Louder cries of agony
Vapors of their souls,
Come alive
They encircle the onlooker,
They expressions change,
To tormented anger
Vindictively questioning eyes
Silence, No answers
Explanations no answers,
An engulfing feeling of guilt,
Tears don’t offer cover,
Pieces of missing colour
Signs of stained souls,
Still fighting
Against the ravages of time….
