gitanjali

DEITY of the ruined temple! The
broken strings of Vina sing no more
your praise. The bells in the evening
proclaim not your time of worship.
The air is still and silent about you.

In your desolate dwelling comes
the vagrant spring breeze. It brings
the tidings of flowers-the flowers
that for your worship are offered no
more.

Your worshipper of old wanders
ever longing for favour still refused. In
the eventide, when fires and shadows
mingle with the gloom of dust, he
wearily comes back to the ruined
temple with hunger in his heart.

Many a festival day comes to you in
silence, deity of the ruined temple.
Many a night of worship goes away
with lamp unlit.

Many new images are built by
masters of cunning art and carried to
the holy stream of oblivion when their
time is come.

Only the deity of the ruined
temple remains unwroshipped in
deathless neglect.