when the rivers run dry
the fishes die
the mosses turn brown
the sands and pebbles
enslaved by the sun
stare at the clouds
looking for the mercy
of rain
the ferns wilt
and those birds and
pigs that used to come
and stop for a drink
are gone
whatever happens
on such a dryness
i keep faith
on this presence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem