Namo Shiva, the familiar mantra,
I was prompted out with a coin
Both to save my after-lunch nap
And for his struggled blessing—
His thick dark woollen outfit
Suffocated him further the blazing heat.
Wielding his Tirshu, the holy symbol,
The authorization bestowed to beg on…
His shaggy hair straw-stiff,
The tri white lines on forehead,
Those tangling necklaces, holy amulets,
Especially the long rosary dangling—
Of bigger beads naturally carved grooves—
His head plunged forward,
The frail outline fully symbolized;
The twisted countenance brutalized.
His promised blessings showered then
From his distant hermitage, the Himalaya alike.
Lo, his mantra coherent—
Letting me withhold a single question.
As he departed, his magic followed too;
And so left me here—
Sticking to my own static trend:
Do thus, harvest so, the interplay.
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