They're generous and simple-hearted

They're generous and simple-hearted, And stitch their clothing cheap and plain. Plenty of crude ones, drifters, sharp ones — But ignorance is what mostly reigns. The heat roasts skin to coal, insanely. And then it rains like cats and dogs. Here every precious rouble governs — Real money, not some paper notes. It smells so strong, to stay indifferent You'd have to be in slumber deep. A layer of air, heated to boiling, Lies on our backs like Angkor's blocks. From the dome down to the solid ground Dead rivers stream, like flowing lava. The motor's Verdi's Traviata, The body's pulse calls back: bravo. And limbs were flooded with the hardest Steel after a trio of temples. Delight that's mixed in with a sadness Gets driven round by tuk-tuks, not Grabs. The whole mash-up of Asian weekdays Is blazing in a riot of colour. The village — hush, the city — crowded: A stream of motorcycle helmets. And Buddha, just like Stalin once did, From portraits — watchful, but with a smile — Keeps watch on every bedroom moan And bears his mask of sticky paint. Here spirit has soaked up the profit — But then, where's it any different now? And keeps its balance like a pro In all this plastic-bag-strewn shit. Any old thing costs one dollar — The dream of all who trust the buck. And each of them lives through a horror Once back in their own native chaos. The country's gorgeous. Ancient everywhere. To the people with chocolate skin — Thank you for this miracle. For the road that led me through Cambodia.