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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 unworshipped in

deathless neglect.

89.