Ruffling through dry leaves

and hanging tassels from the banyan tree,

I follow him—brisk, stick in hand—

in a neon pink shirt,

up a path for the chosen ones.

Past the dolmen homes,

a thorny, hidden ascent

from the river, through the paddy fields—

coconut tree silhouettes on still water,

a narrow slit between towering boulders.

Past a small, densely wooded way—

a jagged rocky ridgeline enclosing

date and fig trees, along the rim below,

with caves looking down—

a dipped circular basin in granite:

the sacred sanctum, 

as if a landing site.

A solar epicenter,

held under the sun’s protection.

The priest paints twelve moons

within concentric circles in ochre—

seasons for agriculture, solstices, hunting—

then draws the path to the sanctum

across the circles.

Steps leading to the spaceship’s core—

circular windows staring down.

A central ancestral dolmen,

an inner burial site,

beside the shaman’s residence—

a sealed chamber, a pilot’s seat.

He paints radiating triangular sun rays

for people’s protection—

a ring of blades—

shining around the map of the world.

“It’s a drone,” he says.

A desecrated naga stares down

from an overhanging ledge of the cave

into the rocky enclave

of the Moriyara Mané—

the craft moors.

Where he honors their leader,

around a fire,

he connects with his ancestors

with stick animals as offerings,

as a few Moriyara, taken as guests,

stare down from the ship.

Pointing to three large faded patches

like footprints on the rock—

“Hanuman walked here,” he says.

Knocking on the vertical boulders,

he sends messages to the people,

and the ship vanishes in time.

Then the keeper of the cave paintings

demands: “Five hundred.”

I hand him two hundred.