India
Süžeeskeem Tekst
- The skin cracks like a pod.
- There never is enough water.
- Imagine the drip of it, the small splash, echoin a tin mug,
- the voice of a kindly god.
- Sometimes, the sudden rushof fortune.
- The municipal pipe bursts, silver crashes to the groundand the flow has founda roar of tongues.From the huts,
- a congregation: every man woman child for streets aroundbutts in, with pots,brass, copper, aluminium,plastic buckets,frantic hands,and naked childrenscreaming in the liquid sun,
- their highlights polished to perfection, flashing light,as the blessing singsover their small bones.
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