In the Temple of the City God the air is swirled with the piquant musk of incense sticks, finger thick, purchased from a small stand in the corner. They are lit over flames in oil drums, and held smoking into a revolution of compass points, before being consigned to the fire in a covered trough, carved with script.
An old woman begs, with teeth splayed as wide as fingers. She has lived through the twentieth century to end up here, back with the old gold gods, ousted by the rigid red gods of ideology, and the flickering gods of world markets.
No comments:
Post a Comment