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Oh, so much of thirst!
I know how the fire
Of April summer surging in cells!
A drought that blazed you
For hundred years,
Leaving your flesh and skin
In plume of smoke,
And the bones in dust
That you cannot
But hopelessly think
Where's the shoulder
That you could lean upon,
The chest to rest your head,
An arm to shield the winter,
Lips to wet your dry bed of rivers,
Dying for a rain;
The man, who could promise a world to you.
But you must know
For a fragile moment
There awaits a chameleon’s long tongue.
Not an arbor that you need
But a pair of strong wings.
Not far, where the sky is yours
And to be with, even the wind. |
