Melt-melt-melt Thailand 3
A-a-gremo-sada-nepone-procs-a-a. . . A low chorus of rumbling voices-mantras are read under the vaults of the gilded temples of the Bangkong royal palace complex. The sound wraps everything around the temple in a dense veil and snakes, creeping into the ears of tourists and pilgrims sitting in poses, repeating the drawings on the walls of the forbidden city. The same as once in Beijing. For some reason, scenes from the initiation rites of the Satanic church come to mind. Hollywood Forever. So you see how in the crowd of idolaters, behind the backs of the orange monks, a light shadow in a tuxedo and with a pistol glides. Drawn eyebrows and a protruding chin. Bond. James Bond. Series Eye of God. Gre - it is ca-a-de priin lo- o...
Pagodas as high as a small TV tower are covered with gold leaf. The sun indifferently pours its molten lead from the blue skies. Dozens of palaces, temples, prayer sheds are covered with patterned tiles, copper cauldrons and gongs seem to sing softly. Two Thais are sitting on their heels at the altar, incense sticks are smoking in their hands.
Into the shade, into the shade - and finally, the saving coolness of the gray-veined marble floor in the inner chambers. A gentle breeze touches your cheeks. Bare feet slide along the ghostly traces of past generations left hundreds of years ago, a crowd of pilgrims and tourists settled down on the granite floor in picturesque poses. There is nowhere to hurry. And where is the hurry, if time stops here and in tens of years you will leave the temple the same as you entered, and the river of time will continue to flow around the walls, like palms covering you from a whirlwind of years. Pa-o-la-a nepto prin-lo-o...