Apsara

apsara, the first of them i saw were trapped on the angkor wall three hundred years of cold storage with their blossoming bosom that could carry your eyes through a prism of pleasures given only to the mighty kings who once lived here so lonely they stood now in all the corridors they sent shivers down my spine apsara, the second time i saw them was in the cultural theatre in seam reap fair skinned ravishing damsels with voluptuous physiques and high octaved songs lifting the spirits of those from near and afar they were children of old apsaras, nymphs who nearly had their wings clipped by revolutionaries but peservered to keep the steps of their triumphs alive so that young apsaras can be born and stand tall on mount meru again, churning the milk of creation and sing their heart's content night after night their costumes and dance steps were luxuriant, their hands and finger graceful as butterflies, setting them apart from the Thais and Malay dancers the third time, i saw the apsaras was at the Cham Museum of Sculptures in Danang, fragments of an enchanting and glorious past that had been torn apart, torn apart like the temple stones, altars and pillars where apsaras struggled to glimpse at the world, their voluptuous physique and bosom entrancing as ever