Smoke-filled is the room,
I can hear bells tinkling with joy,
Vermillion scattered on the ground,
Holy ash smeared on the foreheads-dry.

The praises of the Lord are sung and sung,
His devotees filled in deep prayer,
None but common men, women, and the aged,
Who have their joys and sorrows with him shared.

The Deity is robed in glittering silk,
Everyone strains to see His face,
Closed lids expectant in the same direction,
Yet everywhere is his footstep traced.

Within our prayer, our thoughts submerged,
We think we pray, yet flooded with preoccupation,
Our lips sing with melody and feeling,
But the heart and mind elsewhere have run.

Ha! How importunate are we, dissatisfied,
Our lips carry forth the messenger- expectant,
Of an year’s glory, happiness, money, or more,
The devotion too is mere selfishness and lure.

Proud are we- for the temple
Pedestaled in our house, before our eyes,
Proud are we- for we think we have chanted,
The lord’s name to oblivion,
Proud are we-for we have clad him,
In riches and gold,
Yet the Lord is enamoured in us,
In spite of our interminable anticipation,
He- a symbol of generosity and forgiveness,
Does the needful and implants elation.

There stands the incense stick,
Its ash falling to fathomless depth,
Yet its smell lingers around enchanting the Lord,
The bells are ringing- adept,
Ungifted it is with the power of Life,
But sprays life into the vicinity of strife.

Powdered it lay gazing into darkness,
Imparting to God, a memory of true devotion,
I sat wondering over His greatness,
His Creation, and His Compassion.