They chiseled temples out of mountains —
all removed but what they found sacred,
featuring figures svelte and naked.
Those stones know chants loud and resounding.
But now grass grows on the stone roof,
some cracks have spread under blazing rays
and rubble topples on monsoon days.
Still come those whose faith is weatherproof.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 
Wonderful poem. I can see the crumbling temple in my mind.
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Thank you
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Enjoyed your applied chisel of faith. Between the atoms, quanta stones have been storing the essence of chants, those spiral meditations of interstitial penetrations (though from some mere ceremonious pondering and musing while stoned in smoke), and stones have been waiting like heaven the arrival of the pilgrims who occasionally come to find the right place to hear or see an interesting story, or eat lunch with friends.
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