Waiting for the Ganachakra

Waiting for final Ganachakra
              pregnant caress of fecal perfumed
              breeze is welcome
              in this happy bake patio
              where yellow dog heaves ribs
              six times a second.

Many money showers from fingers
              of our jet borne retinue,
              clad in flowing drapes:
                            white cotton
                            red cotton
              swirling round maroon bastion.

Time is now shimmering, on boil's verge
              this mandala will soon scatter
              the soft toothy boy monk troupes
              will again have these pattering grounds
              evacuated.
              Foreign murmur tongue
              hushed.

              This heart red dream
              vanished.