Along the Struma

And sand flowed down the Struma
toward the dried-up maw of the sea.

My predatory and uncorrupted
desert,
empty cup
that entrusted all its water
to the sky

and got not a single cloud for it.

How the lips clung
and how they cracked with drought.

So it was written for them!
Serves them right, the cursed things!
They shouldn’t have gone thirsty!

Let us keep the most stricken silence
amid all the yellow-sand stillness
that only hinted

there would be no more rain.

And even that thought
could not quench me.