Varanasi, India (his) |
by Adrian Sangeorzan |
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Here life and death wear the same shari Through which you can see the ribs of time As through the bares of a cage. Everything seems to be started And left unfinished. The finished ones, After they exchanged among themselves The stones of the temples And rained thousand of times through the monsoon’s rain Gathered to a place that no word can name. The guide tells us that in today’s schedule We’ll meet the most popular idols Some of their reincarnations Which we won’t be able to see Just because of our flash cameras And the distance we reached from the lotus flower. Here life and death wear the same shari Through which you can see the ribs of time As through the bares of a cage. In Varanasi, the steps Don’t go up or down into the Ganges Cause the river doesn’t flow anywhere The ashes of the dead, the bunches of flower The sweat of the washed cloth and bodies Unseen dolphins, plastic bottles Float in a circle, the same circle A large bowl where Shiva, the Destroyer Throws spices from India Like some universal disinfectant. The corpses burnt at the water level Smell less that those who quietly Wait in line for their turn. When will be nothing left to burn Agni, the God of fire, will cremate himself Using the dried dang of the saint cows Who’ll grass with serenity straight from the Sanskrit Entire lawns left untouched by the Brahmans. From Varanasi you’ll go straight to haven The guide tells us And don’t look for Karma or Nirvana on maps Because you didn’t pay for them, either. A child keeps chasing me Trying to sell me a small and chubby Budha Or maybe a Khamasutra book, Sir So many positions you never considered From which you might never want to get out, Or a bell with the tromp of Ganesh inside A happy elephant, right? Or a woman with six hands Which won’t move the things anyhow Or the dust of the world till the next monsoon. He gives them all for few rupees From which Gandhi himself smiles at us As only the saints do A kind of God himself Who cremates himself which every bill Passed from one hand to another. India! Invented, suffocated and forgotten by all Gods Ohoooom! Every pray starts like that A long and choked Ohm Your hands lay by themselves on your chest A ray might touch upon your shoulder But somebody turns the light off as you exit. |
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