The river twists through a barren landscape.
Filling with flotsam, detritus, and silt,
dragging death downstream,
it will pour into a bright, blue sea.
You should savor that scene,
but your view is from above,
and so you see a shit-colored plume
splaying into the clear, calm waters.
And you fear the shit stain
will spread across the sea.
But it doesn’t.
It seems to settle.
You never knew the clear and calm could
subdue those murky, mucky waters.
Sitting on the ghat,
Gazing at the flowing river,
thinking that sacred waters
must answer sacred questions.
But they recoil from the answer.
From being shown that they are the river–
a river which forgets that which happened,
while remembering events that never did.
They crave a gift of clarity.
But the only path to understanding
is a backwards plunge into an abyss
in a moment of sacrificial madness.