Sky of gulls
and whispered wind
and murmured soft
the crowded din
of voices heard,
not understood,
in busy streets
blurred nothing words.
So scent, not sound,
and sight, not meaning
drive us through
the market, moving.
Finger’s tips on beads
bulbs, scarves and wood,
and sparkling eyes
replace what could.
Sorry smiles and
awkward looks of
a culture still
not understood.
And yet we feel
a sense of calm
since we are not
Inside its charm.
Interlopers, but ignored
make spies? or flies?
Nee, gods of choice.
Forgotten, now:
and ancient voice.
Final steps of feet
on stone. Old, yet lost
and forever none…
Thus must gods
be 8, not One.