Another mountain is dead

A little golden  girl walked  from the hills with the morning sun in her hair .

At the road’s corner  I see a  shirtless man  on the scooter , with the sacred thread that hovered on  his hairless chest.

He is  our temple man , our  friendly intermediary  between us and God. 

His words were a mere drone in the temple loud speaker in the morning  but surely the power of his words   extended  beyond the earth’s   borders.

He has  a belly round as  God’s earth, with cosmic incantations in them  for calling down thirty million gods from the sky.

It was his words and flame and  water  that connected us to our monkey god. 

Later in the day a lonely worker chipped away at  the neighbor’s roof .

He was  repairing a leaking roof that stood between the sky and my neighbor when the sky poured torrents of rain on his head.

The  sounds of his relentless hammer-beats echoed in the hollow afternoon .

The sounds  were  interspersed by  a yellow bird’s  tireless notes.

The notes came from our dead standing  tree which was still hosting beautiful yellow birds ,while awaiting its final execution by the municipal Axe.

In the afternoon ,one heard a loud explosion in the distance which rattled our windows and  set off bunches of cawing crows from the sleeping trees.

It looks like another mountain is dead in our neighborhood.


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