The temple lies along the river,
six stone pillars lifting it above the fields of frosted vegetables.
It is the morning after the festival.
In the leaping light, the water that floats between the pillars
is as still and as glimmering as the polished floor.
On it lies a solitary form wrapped in grey: it seems to float on water.
He floats in his dreams, for he is the singer,
brought from afar for the festival.
He is reliving last night:
the music flowing into the river with his voice,
the light on the river carrying it up to the moon,
the heavenly 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,
an old woman appears with a broom and starts to sweep away the debris
of fallen leaves;
of withered garlands;
of paper and tinsel;
of dreams.
The river will accept it and carry it all away;
anyway, it already owns the music.
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