A row of wooden huts perched upon rusted sheets of corrugated iron, the wat stood beside them, bright golden shining Buddha shaded by trees, white painted stone rising above, tapering towards a mosaic of translucent crystals; blues and off whites converging into a golden point against the paled wash of the sunset sky. Off to the east east wispy clouds pattern the hilltop heavens, distanced beyond the sounds of traffic and above the blanketing pollution laying over the city: crop burning and cars casting a haze as distant clarity is lost within the shimmer of the air tainted and dry in the winter sun.

And somewhere else maybe, the broken mask of buddha, cracked stone and cement filler, looking out upon the dancers as they pass...