Sandhi Pujo

They are praying now. For an hour, as the incense wreaths their bodies, the clearest things will be the drum, the cymbals, the rising image of the gods, and the true relation of mortality and its dearest aspirations will stand forth clearly: men as mists and gods as gleams.
For a few moments, the squabbles inside and out will be chastened, sidelong voices drowned out. The priest will turn his back on the crowd, the drummer will lose himself in effort. Sound, enforcing silence, will summon all. They are praying.
Hear me too, I plead for peace.

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