The morning in Banares
along the Ganges
is no longer fresh:
smell of urine and
dried and fresh excrement
merge with smoke, sweat and
stench of the rotting water
with eyes closed or
open
it's only the sight
of
sexless genitals
or half-burnt bodies
that incite no nirvana
now infested with viruses
unknown to the city
dharma is eaten
by vultures in the streets
and the river awaits
new birth
dream brokers promise
in convulsions of
lust
