Ruins from centuries and the glory of Bhole Nath,

A river named Ganga which has travelled its path.

Bangles of glass in rainbow colours making a chime,

As the weavers weave makes silk threads sublime.

Mute spectator like ghats have untold stories to tell,

Where myth and history mingle and sentiments dwell.

The Ghats stand stoic as Ganga splashes away,

Perhaps in angry protest against the deepening clay.

Steps descent one by one to reach the river bed,

With each step ego, self, quests are gently shed.

Threadbare one stands in neck deep waters,

To swim or simply float, it no more matters.

Every step is drenched with the footprints of my kin,

Slippery with the sediments of some ancient sin.

As evening sets, crowds gather around the euphoric shore,

Boats sway in mid river till the river can hold no more.

Worship begins as hundred lamps light up the river,

Chants of Vedic shlokas adding fervor and shiver.

Not far from there another light burns beautifully bright,

Flames from the funeral pyre dancing in shameless delight .

The mourners muffled cries are not to be heard here,

For death by this ghat was perhaps the last desire.

Death parades hand in hand with life, day and night,

The forever burning fire is a reminder of that truth, in open sight.

To attain moksha and freedom from the cycle of life,

The path is arduous and not many are ready for the strive.

The labyrinth of narrow winding lanes leading up to open spaces,

Symbolic of the heart, mind, faith and trust of human races.

The charm of the ghats, the temples, the river flowing deep,

All drenches the soul and forever in our memories Varanasi seeps.