Wednesday, March 9, 2011


Red square, blue square, tiles of white

The spout spits rapidly

Thoughts of love, and future commerce

Thoughts of pain, failed attemps

Droplets sail over the synthetic,

mapping their trail across the wall

Others explode against the floor

to be filtered, amass to reap

Eyes follow the fall of one,

a plummet to the palm

Splashing splatters wet ravine

Enough to sustain

Enough to nourish

Blazing light beats

dark toned flesh

The dirt, rigid, cracks under foot

The stretched horizon widens sight

Faces gleam blank with plight

Tattered cloth and soccer balls

Scattered huts made of the earth

A silent wind breathes hope, a song

that’s hushed by tears of kin

The sandstone well,

a glimmered surface

Arid, hollow, thirsty within

A single drop would suffice

But nothing now

nothing now

-Eric Hawkinson

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