Between us and our philosophy there is a stream
Of people, slow-moving  towards the blue horizon
With their  hands hurled into empty space in rhythm
Their brass cuff-links glistening in the morning sun.

There are overwhelming huge crowds milling about
 In railway trains , with water pots under their seats.
They are the shadows of so many people in frenzy
Of hearts suffering blockage, of minds gone crazy
Bodies lying intestate, with flies buzzing about eyes.

I have to first understand where they are all going,
Crossing the fords and rivers, dunes and beaches, 
Clutching fears in bellies, gods crying floral attention 
And water on their phallic stones, camphor flames
Lighting ancient darkness, bats fluttering in caves
Old men and women blinking eyes to blinding  light.

I should understand  their stones and nubile maidens
Dancing in ancient moonlight, their flutes softly singing
From tree branches on the river banks, after stealing
Butter from pots hung in kitchen's darkness of mother.

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