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LXXXVIII
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 fiered 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 unworshipped in deathless neglect.
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