A hush came through that
Empty prism filled
With clear rain.
.
I could not decipher
Its tongue of wind.
.
In monochromatic silent thought
The impression of a distant catastrophe:
Somewhere the village succumbed to lava,
Somewhere, throes of crisis rang.
.
I could not hear
Its scream of flames.
Drawing up the bucket
With a ghost rope,
.
Flecks of luminescence
That blister my hands
Through toilsome hours.
.
Pulling, peeling the ectoplasmic cord—
I must drink deep from the spirit well.
Someday I will find the sweet libation.
Then, I will rest my weary hands.
.
Through that cold delirium
So parched by lunar ice,
An ebullient breeze flew.
@d-pend