Deity of the ruined temple! The broken strings of Vina
sing no more your praise. The bells in the evening proclaim not your time of
worship. The air is still and silent about you.
In your desolate dwelling comes the vagrant spring breeze. It brings the tidings
of flowers — the flowers that for your worship are offered no more.
Your worshipper of old wanders ever longing for favour still refused. In the
eventide, when fires and shadows mingle with the gloom of dust, he wearily comes
back to the ruined temple with hunger in his heart.
Many a festival day comes to you in silence, deity of the ruined temple. Many a
night of worship goes away with lamp unlit.
Many new images are built by masters of cunning art and carried to
the holy stream of oblivion when their time is come.
Only the deity of the ruined temple remains unworshipped in deathless neglect.