Today, the clouds, like a drawn bow,
Turn the curve of the horizon
Upside down and high becomes low
Until the setting of the sun.
Just-ending rains flooded the fields
And small rudderless sailcraft spin,
Empty of their laden yields.
Can sweet water cause such ruin?
We walk the high ground hand in hand,
Stranded on the bridge-less bank.
How will we return to our land
Before all has turned rot and rank?
A lone boatman polls upriver —
He’s seen death, this old life-giver?
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