There is a Hampe,
Behind the Hampi of now,
Which stands just the same as ever,
Under the scorching summer sun,
Beneath the wintry twilights,
And the moonless night skies.
The temple gongs and chimes
Sing of the ancient grandeur.
Idols of the mighty Gods
Speak of human stories –
Untold, half-told, retold –
Stories that you will see
In the place of a missing forearm,
Read into an abducted statue,
And hear from the weathered pillars.
The starlight in the lapping waters of Tungabhadra
Croons of the plundered and pillaged wealth,
And extols of the glory that lingers,
Like a spirit expelled.
But what lie beneath
Are the dizzying hues of creation,
Of bashful curves of the stone-art,
And the magnificent structures
Carved out of rocks,
In their geometrical perfection
Of the hills that flaunt
The magic of sunrises and sunsets.
So you may touch the mysterious musical pillars,
And tremble to the sweet notes,
Send ripples through the sacred waters
With your charged fingertips.
These temples, mantapas, mahals, and statues
Are made of stories
In colours and poems.
For after all, we are creatures of melancholy,
Trying to tell tales
Waiting to be told,
And craving to be heard.
To tune in to the throbbing veins of Hampi and reminisce on her ruins, join our Photography Tour.