the dust by the side of the road sculpted
by canvas shoes and sweat and poverty
was flat underfoot but a whole continent
to the red ants busy in their moral desert;
the mountains’ distant glowing held the temple
reddish gold gated guarded by the low-caste
inside the enclosure where butterflies flew in
and out above the halted procession orange
in robes loose around abluted bodies.
i stood outside the railings hungry thirsty
and slowly i was let in to sweep floors,
contribute my silent presence to the trees
under which a ceremony burned like incense
into an evening moistening but hopeless.
For this was still the fashion of spirit
to brush colours onto eyes and refuse to ask
the name of the stream that bleeds its course
through a cavernous heart and onward
past the mountains and into the desert.
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