Green porcelain gleam
of Naga’s scales along a balustrade,
garudas craning skyward from a tiered roof.
Plop of ripe jackfruit on the terrace
Near the temple, something like a gazebo.
Step in, again, under one arch.
Gongs hang suspended from the others.
Stand near the largest,
its cupped centre polished
in a disc of blackened brass.
Now someone outside must strike it.
The sound bone deep—
earth, body, sky one
As it subsided
and your sudden fear—
what would you have to lay down,
what part of yourself
abandon, where the world
opens into resonance