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1983-2015
tearing the rag off the bush again
Varanasi, India (his) PDF E-mail

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 hands157_5745_320
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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