Day 2--Satine.

They come to the temple with incense, gold, coins. No pottery shards. Leave those outside, they say. Lines of the fragrant, ritually washed. The music hums, the gong sounds. Next in line. She sits, enthroned, rich maroon silks. At her right hand is a peacock, at her left hand is a cardinal. Choice meats, vegetables and fruit lie on her table. Every day the offerings are taken away. Sometimes the sandal-clad villagers bring her televisions. Old junk sets, broken, still with their insect antennae. Marigolds, lilies, birds of paradise. Always crowned in gold. Goddess of the earth. Rooted in the center of the temple. But little do the mortals know the story of when one gets within a meter of her. Dark olive skin and perfumes of true, living nobility. And yet those in the next nation over accuse her of being a fantasy of the very young or very corrupt. Praised be the reds and the golds. Apple offerings, too. Plump sparrows liked to sit on branches in her temple. No divination was necessary to speak to her, for she was the true source. She put thoughts in mens’ heads. She gave them back their humanity. She seduced the select, the few, the intiates.

The tour car stops suddenly, and rickshaws scatter.

“Where is the place of peace?” says she. Her skin is olive but her face is always turning from blue to soot-black. Old women and pilgrims of all ages are allowed to touch her, too, but only when she requests.

The incense smells heavy today.

So Ma Yo Kye Ve Ge La

Monks from another temple, not hers, about 5km away, chant. The little boys have started their whirling this morning in front of her throne. Today the birds fly in, west to east. They are always in west to east, never flying in from the east.

No bird ever lands on the apex of her temple. For there are rumored to begin all thoughts, all creations in the world.

Today begins the feast-day of the young women who have just started menstruating. Their throats are slit on the altar and their blood collected. Their outer gowns of pure gold and silver hammered thread are donated to a charity for the garbage-collectors.