Starved land gives birth
to enormous cracks that plead
for the rains to relieve its constant need.
I linger,
along with others,
watching time s l o w like a dying man,
who cannot climb the dunes and
rocks from his death-like thirst.
The sands shift in the arid winds,
that toy with particles: Count!
trillions in the life-size hourglass
as the world waits.
Thinking upon thoughts that count
as numerous as the desert grains;
staring lasts days,
half letters need endings.
`T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova
