This drought of serendipity,
famine of the heart,
this dry spell.
This caesura
of expectation.
The well-digger knows
where ice-cold springs
are buried.
The well-digger knows
where to look
for things that flow.
The well-digger
has grown old
and has forgotten where
the water runs,
where the water runs.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
feels like a revival of creative critical thought i enjoyed it much