Children, brown as earth, continue to laugh away
at cripples and mating mongrels.
Nobody ever bothers about them.
The temple points to unending rhythm.
On the dusty street the colour of shorn scalp
there are things moving all the time
and yet nothing seems to go away from sight.
Injuries drowsy with the heat.
And that sky there,
claimed by inviolable authority,
hanging on to its crutches of silence.