Aryabhata: The Cosmic Poet

In ancient Kusumapura’s embrace,

A mind ablaze with celestial grace.

A poet of numbers, a sage profound,

Aryabhata’s legacy forever unbound.

He gazed at the heavens, eyes alight,

Counting stars in the ink-black night.

Their orbits, their rhythms, their cosmic ballet,

Aryabhata wove their secrets into his lay.

Zero, the void, the silent abyss,

Aryabhata embraced its infinite kiss.

In his verses, he birthed the cipher divine,

A gateway to mathematics, a mystical sign.

“Prithvi spins!” he declared with glee,

The Earth pirouetting, wild and free.

On its axis, it twirls, day into night,

Aryabhata’s revelation, a beacon of light.

“π,” he whispered, “a circle’s sweet refrain,

Three-point-one-four, an eternal chain.”

In verses terse, he penned its decimal grace,

A mathematical hymn echoing through space.

Eclipses danced—a cosmic masquerade,

Moon veiling the Sun, shadows displayed.

Aryabhata’s verses wove their celestial tale,

Of lunar kisses and solar flames that sail.

Stars marched in step, their celestial parade,

Sidereal years measured, their paths surveyed.

Aryabhata’s verses, a symphony of time,

Notes etched in stardust, a cosmic rhyme.