Underwater

Strange-colored white stone—
in sunlight it levels
every path,
a single stretch
all eyes must follow.
 
It fixes the gaze,
the philosopher’s last anchor,
until diminished—
yet intoxicated with joy.
 
Stones along the wet trail
celebrate,
sliding down the waterfall’s body,
rushing with the cold of ice,
descending slowly,
famous by erosion.
 
If a festival rises,
if illusion gathers,
crowds of young women
come to draw water.
 
Like us they come,
lean close,
their eyes touching the flow,
and many citizens watch.
 
Feet press the stones,
treading across the chest,
while whiteness itself
fades to dust.
 
And then,
in insolent monsoon,
comes the question:
 
where will you keep
so many tears?