The temple lies along the river—
six stone pillars lifting it
above fields of frosted vegetables.
It is the morning after the festival.

In the leaping light, the water
floats between the pillars,
glimmering, still as polished floor.

On it lays a form wrapped in grey,
looking as if he is floating on water.

He floats in his dreams, for he is
the singer brought from afar.
He is reliving last night—
music flowing into the river with his voice,
river’s light carrying it up to the moon,
its notes scattered among the stars.

The light is stronger now. It washes over
the sleeping figure in the temple,
as if the river had overflowed.

On the bank, mongrel dogs feed
on remnants of the feast.
An old woman with a broom
starts to sweep away the debris
of fallen leaves, withered garlands,
paper and tinsel, and dreams.
The river will accept it all
and carry it all away
because the music was so good.