I see you well, through these sacred eyes— The face, the fear, the trembling guise. Within your gaze, a thousand cries, Yet I see the softness the world denies.
You see my shadow, not my flame, Not the one who once bore this name. When I step into this painted grace, Even I forget my former face.
It’s not my power, nor my art, It’s him who speaks through every part. Not a mirror, not a man— Just a vessel in a grander plan.
Fear not this mask or voice so grim, It’s just the other side of him. But know this truth, serene, the same: Love still burns beneath the flame.
I may be small, but I fill big shoes— When I walk as Shiva, with nothing to lose. Painted in blue, with cobra and flame, Yet under it all, I’m still just a name.
No matter what happens, I don’t say a word, For silence is power, and truth is heard. I play the god with ash on my brow, But I’m just a child in the here and now.
Spare a change, not for pity or fame— But so I can change, and play the next game. Beyond these colours, this cloth, this disguise, Lives a dreamer with stardust in his eyes.
My father says this is how gods are born— Through acts of faith, even tattered and worn. So don’t worry, dear friend, about that dime, Just bless the play—it’s eternal, sublime.
