It is a trance
be it a chance
a priest in a dance
his eyes gleam red
he seems to be dead
then his eyelids close and shut
his words resemble a fret
the audience light the camphor
he wriggles his body in a vigour
the sambrani burns into fumes
a pleasant odour looms
the spectators put forth their queries
he answers them in a reverie
they listen to him with utmost reverence
as he is equal to the almighty in a reference
I sit there with a thought all the while
suspicion gathers in me in a strange style
could this man have such capacity?
not at all my mind warns me with a reliability
how could I make my friends understand?
they are nevertheless blind in their stand.