In India, we got to visit a set of temples very famous
for the erotic sculpture by the name of Khajuraho.
And we had this wonderfully proper guide,
a gentleman I would say, maybe in his late 50s,
and he would point to these incredible nudes
in incredible positions and he would say,
yet another perversity.
And he would never crack a smile, OK.
So this is about that place.
Khajuraho.
Rupee, rupee.
Words like light bells ringing behind us.
Bangled wrists, small cupped hands.
Rupee, rupee.
One, two four, nine.
Rupee, rupee.
Ringing in the tiny village.
White sun slipping into the still lake.
Nearby, the sculptured hands, breasts,
hips, and tongues of Khajuraho.
Temples still hot like Khamavati,
legend says, who tossed in the sheets one summer night,
walked barefoot to a pool, stroked the gleaming ripples
with her fingertips, slipped out of her heavy clothes,
as Chandra the moon God watched.
Swam among the lotus.
Her skin whiter and whiter as Chandra
slipped down into the water into her.
Whose son became King of Khajuraho.
Now pilgrims and tourists stare at these temples.
These figures that touch and taste openly.
Women teasing even trees to bloom.
A spell about the temple garden and village as if
the mix of jasmine and flesh drags us so.
The pure young voices--
rupee, rupee, become a foreign sound.