"One translucent day I leave the city to visit my home, the land of Champa.Here are stupas gaunt with yearning, ancient temples ruined by time, streams that creep alone through the dark past peeling statues that moan of Champa.Here are dense and drooping forests where long processions, lost souls of Champa, march; and evening spills through thick, fragrant leaves, mingling with the cries of moorhens.Here is the field where two great armies were reduced to a horde of clamoring souls. Champa blood still cascades in streams of hatred to grinding oceans filled with Champa bones.Here too are placid images: hamlets at rest in evening sun, Champa girls gliding homeward, their light chatter floating with the pink and saffron of their dresses.Here are magnificent sunbaked palaces, temples that blaze in cerulean skies. Here battleships dream on the glossy river, while the thunder of sacred elephants shakes the walls.Here, in opaque light sinking through lapis lazuli, the Champa king and his men are lost in a maze of flesh as dancers weave, wreathe, entranced, their bodies harmonizing with the flutes.All this I saw on my way home years ago and still I am obsessed, my mind stunned, sagged with sorrow for the race of Champa."