The Bankura horses

In Bishnupur now our horses do not fly
Like the horses of the Sun-God’s chariot
Their decorated necks are humorous and brittle
Our crumbling terra cotta temples are Godless
The temple ponds are now washer men ghats
Our gods no longer adorn the Dance Hall
We have potato cold storages, everywhere,
And our listless young men are playing cards
Under the shade of the ancient banyan tree.