The Idol Maker's Prayer

To you who sits serenely on her chariot,
thronged by hordes of mad devotees;

to you whose brilliance bursts through burnished bronze
 never quite buried under layers of silk and fragrant garlands;

to you whose smile is a lotus just starting to bloom,

I, being a petty mortal, am always aware
that the whole world dances to your whims.

You are
the fecundity of green paddy fields
and cracks on parched earth of a long drought.

You are
a house filled with the laughter of children
and cries of women with barren wombs.

You are
the comfort of full coffers
and the emptiness of a beggar's bowl.

But as I lie prostrate before you,
I desire nothing,
except to mould you with my own hands.
All over again.

No matter how hard I try,
I can never numb this
piercing pang of separation.
I can never forget
that I birthed you
and you birthed me.
But who birthed whom?

You're a daughter I'm about to lose
to your bronze counterpart;
he's dying to wed you
just to bed you
in the sanctum sanctorus
of a timeless temple.

You were
the germ of a Goddess in beeswax
as you flowed through my fingers
and filled yourself out.

You were
pliable clay with which I caressed
the lotus blossom of your bosom.

You were
bliss that became solid
like the clay that caked your body.

You were
a spurting stream of molten beeswax
that gushed out in the heat of the moment.

You were
a hollow womb
yearning for more than just pleasure.

You were
green glowing bronze
straight from the furnace of frenzied devotion,
with which I filled the aching void of your being.

You were
a babe becoming a Goddess
in her secure cocoon- a womb of clay.

You were
agony tearing me apart
when I cracked open your hardened cast.

You were
no longer mine
when I carved your eyes
with a golden chisel,

For
you became Devi
when you opened your eyes to the world.