When raindrops hit the Jagdish temple,
God does not receive them, we do.
Dripping diesel, puffs of smoke,
betel stains and rubbish,
draining into waters in which princes used to bathe.
Namaste, namaste,
this is the land of the maharaja,
where everything we can take has been taken
and all that is left is a palace of tourists
in the middle of a polluted lake.

Thanks to Jane Hirshfield and classmates for suggestions
Written for Stanford’s English 192V: Occasions of Poetry