The Temple Maiden

From the temple she gathers flowers,
while others have crossed the river,
those meant to arrive have come ashore—
but she remains forever,
beside the stone deities
that keep her company
in heat and cold, in shifting seasons,
through forests thundering
with unseen voices,
through the tremor of being itself.
 
Wrapped in the packet of offering,
a coin slips into her hand—
the shameless townsman climbs
the steep path to the upper village.
The restless youth, their hands aflame,
bite their lips, their palms,
thinking how sweet it would be
to have the girl herself,
while looting the priest’s prasād
as though it were fate’s feast.
 
Every day she arranges worship—
the offerings lined on the deity’s plate,
then bathes in the broken riverbank,
her wet sari folded in silent prayer.
She sits with her hand upon her lap,
lost in endless meditation.
The priest consumes the food of gods,
while powerless youths
watch with eyes of hunger.
 
Boats sway with nameless passengers,
dancing midstream,
and in the stillness of night’s sky,
some foreign longing
etches itself into her breast.
Day and night move forward
like a dry and crumbling sandbank,
while her story is carved forever
in the ancient stone of the temple walls.