I believed
Was in the ruins of a sunken temple
Or in that dead man I saw floating
Obliviously on a filthy river
That was supposed to be holy.

I thought I’d talk of the markings
On the water tanks,
The graffiti on the thousand
Year old steps and stones
Or of those men in black
Who eat burning flesh
Of humans carcasses.

The saffron saint told me that.

And poetry-
I believed
Would find me as I slept
in that damp makan
With cold air running down my back
And large monkeys playing
On the roof.

I thought I’d write of the cages
The humans build
Or those black eyed boys
Who stared and laughed
And told me to take off my shoes
As I approached the holy waters.

They urinated in the same waters.

But despite
The river, the men and the screams

Despite the abandoned temples
And the terrible idols

I found myself crying
only for the supreme misery
In my own heart.

I found myself selfish again.


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