There's eaglewood in her hair
and stale flowers. Every evening,
as bells roll in the forehead of temples,
she sees a man on the steps
clean his arse. Kingfishers and egrets,
whom she fed, have flown
her paps. Also emperors and poets
who slept in her arms. She is become
a sewer, now. No one has any use of Vailkai
river, once, of this sweet city.
