Behind The Temple Poem by Saroj Padhi

A trail of clouds uncertain about rain
hangs around neck of belief in pain.

Standing silent at the back of the temple we see
how wishes transpire from body of offerings,
miles stretch out from the tongues of desire;
in the stubborn bodies of ancient stones,
and from fragile limbs of mire in mute prayer;

doors of our temple are not open yet;
with wait for fire from high spirits
dormant like layers of sands wet
they look heavenward for heights.

Are we ready for the front door?

It's a terrible question that continues to haunt,
so often as we try to a false appearance flaunt
in our misplaced love's wild, wild hunt,
for some peace that lies at the root of mind
but not at the edge of our faith grown so blunt.