they say their prayers here.
white marble stone arches
glow dutifully radiant,
imprisoning the crescent moon
like a painting of a holy night.
sunsets-ful of marigold
into bruised petals for
a charlatan’s offering, wilted,
retreat into warm shadows.
pale staircases shimmer,
rich with obligatory faith
and schooled adoration,
ringing bawdy laughter amongst
idle scrutiny of blasphemous attire.
intricate shadow of branches
of a broad and blessed tree
in the halo of a generous moon,
flow across a courtyard
in rivulets of darkness.
they chant their empty verses
here, dizzy amidst scented oil lamps
that fade into coarse daylight,
a little girl, barefooted, belled anklets,
peeks through a rift in the mob
to study a house crow pecking
at an abandoned broken coconut.
T. E. Pyrus