The Heart's Drought
Why do I feel so often that your smile
is like a river, through the desert waste,
where water flows no more? Its lifting curve
is cutting, slicing through the sands; it mocks
the desolation. Traveller, do not
believe that you could never drown within
that arid river. Far above your head
the vultures hang there, swordlike, and their wings
beat like the final drum through stifling air,
and all speech falls so slowly through the sky
just like the rain of tears. And you can see
the endless grains of sand are running fast
between your fingers as they grasp the air.
The desert dreams of his torrential heart.