God’s birthday

Then, at the dead of the night
A river’s waters rose , swelled
And spilled over to the village.

The mountains then looked on
As a flying chariot-in-flames
Had sheared the edges smooth.

The river then swelled in pride
As rain poured into catchment
In rugged Western mountains.

Now the river is within limits
Tamed by the monstrous dam,
With no excitement of a spate.

It is now so much brown sand
With streaks of shallow water.
Nowadays , funeral fires rage

On the sun-baked river-bed.
On those annual festival days
Thousands of merry- making

Peasants and townsfolk alike,
Congregate on the hot sands
To celebrate a god’s birthday.

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