That day it drizzled
so perfectly
that it washed away the dirt
both with in and without.
the grass gleamed greener,
so did the happy leaves
and shone brightly
the weathered sandstone
of this ‘cosmic mountain’.
An absolute peace
engulfed me
as I circumambulated
the balustrades ramp,
admiring the handiwork
on the four Toran gates
by those ancient artisans
who with little more than
chisels and blades
created poetry in stone.
Perhaps Ashoka’s remorse,
Sunga and Satvahana
ceaseless ambitions also
found some succour here.
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