Ode to the Nameless Aghoris

Beautific Compassion...
No where are you not at peace...

Wandering in the cremation grounds...
The Mother holds you dear...

...And from Her bosom you drink wisdom and all the siddhis become your lila...
Temples are burnt.
The altars that hold the Lord must perish.
And you smear the ashes upon your skin...

You whisper sweet moksha into the ears of the corpse...