By the green hedge of leaves we see
The women, in a chain, their mouths
Turned up towards an invisible God.

Between mausolea lie several songs
That rise up as Sunday smoke swirls
To join general vagueness of the sky.

Women are upwards with their faces
And in their souls ,  fine breath of air
Filling old bodies,on way to their God.

Their God eats butter and plays flute
On river bank to girls on  moonlight
Receiving songs from women chains.

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