The well is dry, its walls not even moist;
no pebbles to suck, no underground lake
to dig to. If you've got a thirst to slake,
look elsewhere, stranger. Once we had rejoiced
in flowing water, danced on singing stones
that rang with our footsteps like bells of glass.
The stream writhed with salmon, with trout and bass
enough for all. There--you can see the bones
cast in the dust like runes. Now our lips crack
and we read in that charnel earth a curse,
as if the very world had died of thirst
and we, the vermin living on its back
were doomed as well--unless a savior rain
redeem us, bring our host to life again.
1 comment:
My God, that is absolutely something else -- including purely stunning.
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