We look up, and see Shiva.
In this form, he looks different.
He is cherubic. With fatty thighs.
A belly, unrestrained. Full of milk.
And what bulges like pure butter.
(Perhaps they wanted Krishna?)
What would a child destroy?
Small things. Irrelevant things.
Broken easily. Available in plenty.
Like little glass tumblers. Or
nibs of ink pens. And random
nameless hearts, already fragile.