I carry water in an earthen vessel. The jug is made from earth beneath the palash. I follow the birth of fire through the wilds. The lacuna is lined with fable and milk. Bone marrow flowers in the howls. There is a white swan by the lacuna. I will barter with the swan. Paramahamsa. The Supreme Swan. In my vessel is volcanic ash, lizard skin and burning cloves. It rains for the first time in this green village. I carry rainwater in an earthen vessel. The painter lines the lacuna with copper and wine. He is doubled over with an arched spine, like an Agnes Varda gleaner. He renders an image of the dictator with the thread from his mouth. The dictator stands under a fig tree, with Camel cigarettes in his pocket and a crow tattoo on his throat. The dictator weeps into an earthen vessel. The painter changes into a swan to flee the bowels of fictions. I carry the weeping dictator, swan and lacuna in an earthen vessel. The vessel returns to the earth as a thousand centipedes. The centipedes change into seeds for the workers to plant: anjeer, plantain, baobab.