Thirst

Streams of drought flow indolently, magmatically,
over the dust in my yard
and over the wings of magpies defying silence.
Long, cumbrous streams,
in which dreams splash
like a shoal of fish
insensitive at the sight of the carbon meshes
from my hand.
Streams of thoughts pierce
stone and clay equally,
like veins in search for a heart
into which to pour their unsieved sand.
My palm is an air path
for unholy the death of summer –
between us and the sky,
stamped by too many dry lips kissing it,
only the wind,
quarrying feverishly through the abyssal streams
for water seeds.

 

© Liliana Negoi

originally written in Romanian

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