When not a bird was stirring,
And all the squirrels a-dreamin,
The stars an army of fireflies.
The young abode awaits it's residents,
With an eager breeze and the offer of possession,
A man's kingdom in a ruthless world,
And a symbol of hope and omen of prosperity.
Smoke and chant thick through the air,
Wafts of sesame, camphor and ghee,
Brilliant lamps and the consecrated flame,
Invoking the elephant-headed deity.
The smoke and priests gone home,
Only a bundle of flowers and ash remains,
Except for a feeling, a sensation, an intuition,
That the sun has a distinct trunk and a tusk and a half today.
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| Ganpathy Homam |
