on her mother’s hip:
Somnambulant favor-seekers snake the heights, spinning brass prayer wheels, placing incense into the arched fire-openings. Flames belch heated ash. In altered-states, the procession drones, up and down, round and round. Mantras buzz like a million bee’s their drone blends with the crackle of fire and slap of footfall. The maze of steps and platforms appears endless. The penitents shuffle within a masonry mandala draped in a rainbow of saris they weave threads through the weft of time.
snaps prayers flags:
vendor hawk wares
Rest, look, taste, each cajoles, offering chai tea and seats on straw stools.
Beggar children with mud-coated feet run pleading through the press of pampered travelers. Their reality existing side by side with that of the well-dressed foreign devils whose legs they cling too and whose eyes they beseech.