A daughter burned within the womb,
Born beautiful, yet barely alive,
Sits alone, on a tree that stood through the times,
When the fire had taken over my love for the lies.
I, named Amrapali, almost withered like the leaves,
Had to find an aura, an ocean that could heal through its site.
How beautiful, the root to the lotus would sit in tranquillity,
Guiding the likes of me towards the shore,
Through the clear waves from the universe,
Dementing the moulded clay of Karma.
The ocean, without the name,
Would ask us to close our eyes to feel the waves,
Powerful, healing to the core,
Where no name could suffice, but simply adore.
The names still ask if all I do is dream,
They call for Ajatshatru, They sing his deeds,
But how trivial the fire in the names and the place,
As if the hate co existed in the name of love,
Rather a blame from the faith?
Come dear names under the Peepal,
Where the ocean sits to adore the rain.