They used to stand
So proud, so important
So loved and cared
They used to hold
The heart of a city
They used to listen
To the chants of a beautiful language
Amid writhing incense
And the glow of desperate candles
They were whole
And they were part.
Now they are carcass
Butchered by evil probabilities
In the shade of many a night's history
It was a textbook example
Of genocide
But nobody acknowledged it
Because the temples cannot
And would not
Scream
Or cry
Or produce crying babies
To make good photographs.
They do cry
But tears have long dried
Like the art on their skin
Their screams were tender
Like a sad, writhing river
Forever frozen in winter.
- Naychi
late 2018
hotel in Bagan
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