Water trinkles down the stone cold walls of Babri Towers.
Souls outside are blooming,
It's the Festival of Flowers.
Some soar to a heightened state,
the minutes feel like hours.
Each one on a sacred trip,
discovering their power.
The Sun's about to kiss the Moon,
and darkness must devour.
All that lies within our minds,
the things that make us cower.
The hood we wear
when there's no need.
The minutes feel hours,
Underneath the shadow,
of the sacred
Babri Towers.
