In its vast blue vault, the golden cup spills
over Earth's parched brow, unto its fevered, furrowed hills,
a clear ethereal wine, hot and pure, that mingles
with quietly devout, gaunt, prickly fingers,
humble supplicants cupping a rosary of sand.
In the darkness of their being
they silently gather silvery beads
that spill over like precious mead.
Prayerfully they clasp the scattered, quivering links
shattered like drops of quicksilver, pilfered from the land.