rises from the ruins of Nixon’s secret war
and the Khmer Rouge killing fields

Majestic replica of the cosmos
mystical temples of stone
rows of filigreed towers
rise from the Perfume river

Causeways flanked by serpent balustrades
lead to cross shaped terraces
where a steep stairway lined with lions
leads to the shrine of Vishnu
who greets strangers with eight-arms

Asparas, bare breasted celestial dancers
emerge from temple walls and stairways

A Khmer poet once wrote
“They were never carved by the hands of men!
They were created by the gods—
living, lovely, breathing women.”

Torches flame on stone altars in dark corridors
where squatting saffron robed priests chant
in the galleries as girls in diaphanous gowns
dance up and down stone stairways
in clouds of incense rising like prayers
from lotus blossoms in clay pots

The barren royal library
now bereft of literary treasures
leads to the gallery of 1000 Buddha’s
and the Hall of Echoes
where the Bagavata Pourana says:

“The Ocean of Milk is churned by the gods
and demons to generate amrta, the elixir
of life and immortality”

Risking the wrath of King Saryavarman
I water in a dark corner of the temple
his remains with mine

Tomas 99