My hands tremble
My brush wobble

Make my painting acceptable
In your acceptance, O Mother

‘am not able to carve
in dreams too
The essence of your untainted love

I knew about your “soul” whereabout
Only when I saw
Your freshly carved portrait, flashing
On the walls of “Devakula”

But you are eternal; deathless
O my Mother

How could I paint you
With my broken stroke

My hands tremble
My brush wobble

O my lovely Mother!


Devakula = A temple; cf. ācāryakula, a gallery of portrait statues of deified or semi- deified ancestors.

6 thoughts on “Devakula

Leave a Reply to Abu Siddik Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *