The rich will make temples for Shiva. What shall I, a poor man, do? My legs are pillars, my body a shrine, my head a cupola of gold.

Listen, O Lord of the meeting rivers, things standing shall fall but the moving shall ever stay. Make of my body the beam of a lute, of my head the sounding gourd, of my nerves the strings, of my fingers the plucking rods.

Clutch me close and play your thirty-two songs, O Lord of the meeting rivers.

— Basavanna, Medieval Hindu Poet