A New-old Story (3)

It was a damp dark day
Of July, of August, nay,
When right from the sky he fell,
Coming, as we know, from hell,
Into river-mother Ganga.
She, the destroyer of sins,
She, the remover of stains,
Received her newest son,
While the sky wept some
Heavy droplets of acid rain.

Now you with raised eyebrows
Squirm due to element discordant.
How else does one reconcile
Myths of old with times modern?
This is not the only instance.
And after such knowledge
There’s no ignorance.
So, acid rains taint the myth.
Yet, if you listen
It has some pith.
And beauty, rhythm, allegation
(No, allegory, or allusion?)
‘Tis told in a terribly playful tone.
A worn out needle of gramophone
Very well will play,
In a hackneyed way,
As mode and manner will meet there.

So, she the destroyer of sins,
Received her son, returned from hell.
He could not hear
What waves then spoke,
As wind and rain
Were both intense.
He did not hear
What waves then said.
His eyes were set
On the many-templed Kasi.
Not many have seen
Such an evening scene
With the sun sinking
Right behind domes; pinnacles.
Like none has seen
The morning rising sun
Above the farther sand-spread bank.
Riveted he saw
With dropped lower jaw
The beauty and glory incarnate.

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