Small Buddhas smile above their blooms on gilded family altars, glide along the curves of the Perfume, that river named before the dooms of war ripped Hue's old gilded hide and Buddhas' smiles above their blooms. The river waves are slapping tunes. Greens sputtering in a wok provide, along the curves of the Perfume, the smoke of incense. Children's spumes of laughter rock small boats whose guide is Buddha's smile above his blooms. Those years death rode the river's flume, his rotting incense justified along the curves of the Perfume by leaders' greed for power's boom. War's drowned now in the river's tide where Buddhas smile above their blooms along the curves of the Perfume. |