BY TAMANNA BANGTHAI
The town is welcoming
an old god
with virtue written
all over his face.
They pour petalled water
on his hands
and cheer away
the ache of their sacredness.
He winces at the ceremony
that threatens to wash off
sins he couldn't commit,
but served sentence for each.
The town bows before
his single headed crown,
because there once was one
with many, but a hand of gold.
The sky looks defeated
at his stance,
and temple walls grow thicker
as he ascends.
One feet on the ground,
another on a flying carpet,
he takes an oath "I'll be just",
but the throne is carved
out of sin.
He frowns at the unpleasantness
of its genesis, and chops
a heart out of his hand.
The temple bells ring
and a child turns in his bed,
resumes sleep and picks up
a dream where he left it.
- The whole town is asleep again.