The Thirst

The hardened winter soil
Has the paradox of being moist
With sprinklings of frost

Whose dusky gleam persists
After the sun has made its exit,
For my shrivelled mind and limbs.

I'd gorge on this sumptuous feast
Of fresh slush on my weak knees
In the middle of a deserted street.

My teeth would break the crust
Of the frozen ground and gulp
The juice in it with roaring lust,

So that the stream may flow
Again from my skull to toes
Nourishing my withered hopes.

And the sands in my eyelids
And choking my throat shall be rinsed
In those mighty flushing rapids,

And my barren dry heart
May grow a field of spring grass
And clusters of morning stars.