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Central to the idea of peace in the
world are icons of worship. Among mud huts, a hodge podge of pillars, antiquity supports straw pallets as marketeers, disregarding earwig and weevil, squat, lounge and sleep. Or, serving sweet tea, tempt you with know- ledge. 500 years ago, strawberries grew in those green patches between banana stalk and the sugar cane. Excavated yesterday: a pipeline for the bath of the Empress who waded with her ladies in jewel lined tanks, bedecked with balconies. Across a desert mile and centuries, elephants trumpeted pleasure in their domes, bowed happily for food, lifted advadhuts in sacred celebration, engaged their tusks for war. Beyond the balance for the Emperor's weight in gold, sandals skimming a single rock, one came upon temples where palm against stone brings tone like the glass blower's art. Boulders, black as holes swallowing the light, shoulder the Tungabhadra, lead flowing, breathing the sun. School children bathe from the Mandapa. Spindle-legged Indians pace in the dust. Silence hisses, clouds of ghosts lift their bundles, walk away from the last two trees, deserting the Empire, ruins of Hampi, so children of the West can lay down their sacks for sleeping in, ponder the central idea of peace in the world, the icons of worship, the dust. |
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jhaag@u.washington.edu