What the fresco asks of the poet

I was commissioned to write a poem to be read once, aloud, in front of a fresco of Krishna lifting Govardhan. The painting is older than the language I write in.

I wrote, and re-wrote, and finally read three lines. The wall listened politely. The audience clapped. The wall, I think, will still be there in fifty years; my three lines, perhaps not. This seems the correct ratio.