Poetry

Deserting a shrine, in the swirling 
waters, I move, unbuilding 
a path, under the shade of the moon. the 
sprawling village has been swept off/and 
so were the ponyriders; 
a lifeless symphony of howling winds/ 
scatters the silence. 
 
I step forward to meet the vapors 
of after death./The souls are dead/ 
and the ghosts are walking in dark. 
No ignition was left to recognize the faces. 
No god was seen nearby. 
 
I am at loss to make the return journey. 
A boulder as big as the temple/ 
obstructs the view. There are moaning 
voices/coming from under the sunk 
houses. Why won’t the unseen hands/build 
up a bridge. I eat your words 
and go in trance. 
 
Where are the bottle’s jinnees now?