Visit to the Shrine

by Derek Wang

By Shiva’s lingam we worship 

the Trimurti that weeps 

We sat down and whimper, when we remembered Zion[1].

Her burnish’d throne, arctic,

 resuscitates in water and fire.

Her remains, arctic as well,

A single sigh for the vanished signs.

Will there ever be time? Will there ever be rain?

Our friend, the polymath, talks of constant metaphysics.

Yet even the most abstract entity

is forced to circumambulate in distress.

Does he know? Does he know? Will the tender Parjanya ever respond [2]?

Wait once more as Vladimir and Estragon erect [3],

Nous sommes les marionnettes du monde[4].

A flame that consumes and consummates in ecstasy.

Je vois alors qu'ils la joue comme un jouet[5].

Regard and behold, the fragments of a girl.

Have I set my land in order at last [6]?

Her last consciousness, drown in the stream of dead images.

For every bullet impaled on the kind demoiselle,

imprints the name of these, worshipping false idols and pence.

I hear your voice again,

pale, unsatisfied oscillation in suspense:

Thou hast committed—

Fornication: but that was in another country,

And besides, the wench is dead[7].

So gently forget me now, for you and I,

if you wished, might have been friends.