Baba

days begin, again, to merge and flow, fluttering upon the waters...the changing light drifting upon silver watered river, slow moving until almost a stream curving continuous beneath the crumbling facades of the ghats.

these last days remnant haar, now clearing softly and slowly but, last night, drifting up from the ganges clambering unnoticed upon walls until Vishnu wore also this shroud while, above, bright stars sprinkled upon dark moonless sky until later, upon the sound of a bamboo flute, the moon appeared in descent, bloodied upon first sight, then cleansed by this woven blanket of mists, shone bright and clean casting another tone upon the spectrum of orange light from sodium bulbs.

later, a thunderstorm. Massive explosions and two particular bursts if lightning: the first above assai ghat, a blinding spiders Web of forks which brought brief mystic illumination...the second across the waters, flashbulb bright removing both nightvision and streetlamps as symphonic thunders drummed from horizons until they formed an all encompassing cacophony above us: varanasi in true dark, only the distanced flickerings of orange light risen from the burning ghats remained to define the possible of the city. Or, here, in varanasi maybe the impossible city...