Alaga 3

Circulars sent out to aircrafts hovering over the Ganga, the space of time sandwiched in the crescent moons silver happy-lining, blasted out onto the sun's peripheral rays, effervescent in thought the thoughtless ones come out into the open, in tents, in orange, their rasta hearts singing untame tunes of the past and the future, the present only a carrier of time now. Time, being now, transported out of time, shuttling around the Earth like pyramids in sector Autumn 8, their relentlessness spearheading a whole new revolution of men wrapped in cotton, their mouths foaming silken threads and monumental earthquakes, hot springs gushing out of their sahasrara, their untamed hearts now waking in the bathroom light and staring into the reflection of Jesus Christ in the water, that piece of the river that flows north suddenly, that section of light passing through the trajectories of so many wanderers, their hearts seeing lies in the blood-red circus, this Maya, this illusion we call reality, this momentary lapse, this seasons best kept secrets residing in wooden boats all coloured blue to represent the omnipresent character of water, of it being there everywhere, looking, feeling, touching all life, making them present, here and now, how did we learn to float, yet we drown, it comes with such force, it asks not how to continue, it only thinks in circles, like those timeless circulars sent out to aircrafts hovering over the Ganga.