Starts the usual hustle and bustle,
When I, actually, begin to believe
I possess some physical shape or form,
What you all fondly address "Konark".
I do feel to cover
The whole of my being
From the cruel glares of all the seasons,
And fan my worn and emaciated limbs
With palmfuls of fresh and sweet airs.
The rapt eyes of the tourists view
The marvellous and wonderous arts
Skilfully inscribed in my stone remnants,
Come to know my sculptures' history,
And feel spellbound in my blissful company
Each temple that is eager to live
Is nothing but a replica of "Konark",
And the eyes keen to treasure the spectacles
Indeed, happen to be a Tourist.
Copyright: Dr. Shankar D Mishra, Bhubaneswar, Odisha, India. 17.03.2023
N. B.: The above poem is the translated version of an Odia poem "KONARK" composed by Smita Panda, Narasingh Pur, Cuttack.
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