A girl in pink walks the ghats,
where morning prayers whisper
into the light.
She winds her way between
color and cloth,
life drying in rows
by the sacred Ganges.
The river does not forget.
It carries the ashes of burning hopes,
the chants of the old,
the laughter of children,
the weight of belief.
Here, every ripple is a hymn.
Every breath, a thread
in the tapestry of tradition.
They come to wash,
to cleanse,
to remember.
To dip into waters
that promise purification,
to let the burdens go
with the currents,
and maybe be born again
in this endless loop of becoming.
India—
where spirit is stitched
into the folds of life,
where childhood dances
on the edges of fire and water,
and every day is a prayer
wrapped in color,
in reverence,
in renewal.
3 responses to “Where the River Remembers”
The country of a million gods…
Yes…
Indeed. I have photographs of my great-grandmother, her mother and her grandmother. A while back. So I can say: They were there.