i made a poem: based on local observations

Fading paint

At first it was full and complete- a finely painted picture:
The dearly loved doctor, the champion—all the down-trampled untouchables
Hailed him as hero, as savior, as saint, this high-minded speaker
Whose face has now faded—only red lips remain of famous Ambedkar.

And what can we say of Sandino? His revolution still strong
In his homeland and hither and yon. His heart a hardy beacon
For peasants and poets and people all over the planet
Who hate oppression. But where is HE? Thank God we have his hat!

See where even God in his grandeur—Lord Govinda with his gopis—
Must suffer the same slow fading. Even Krishna’s sweet self
Is not what once it was. Where are his wisps of hair?
Nought but nipples of his lovers and mellifluous notes remain.

As time and tides conspire, eroding and erasing tinting paint,
Still spirit will survive, even if its symbols must grow faint.