Coracles spin the river’s route
like dervishes in dance,
whisked around frenetically
as minds spill into trance.

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.