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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