bimble

A row of wooden huts perched upon rusted sheets of corrugated iron, the wat stood beside them, bright golden shining  Buddha shaded by trees white painted stone rising above, tapering towards a mosaic of translucent crystal; blues and white converging into a golden point against the paled blue wash of the sunset sky. Off east wispy clouds pattern the heavens, distanced beyond the sounds of traffic and the blanketing pollution laying over the city: crop burning and cars casting a haze upon the air as distant clarity is lost within the shimmer of the air tainted and dry in the winter sun.

And somewhere else maybe, the broken mask of buddha, cracked stone and cement filler, looking out upon the dancers as they pass...