Darjeeling by Anna Kongs

The blue rail cars cut the desert into uneven halves.
Somewhere a child is dying
and the women are plucking white blossoms for their funeral robes.
Even the river stones are washed white.
They took salt from the earth
and sweetened their sorrows with the weeds on the dirt road
staining their palms with the sugary grain.
A lone musician offers his notes to the canyon walls
a lowing croon, a half-hat, a b-flat blue.
This is where they wash their hands in the ash –
devote their flames to multi-coloured gods
and bow their necks in devotion,
a serving spot for blessings.