Water comes
Taking back
What it has sent,
Growing a million hands.
We are just this skin,
This blood,
This soul,
And not miracle workers
To contain it –
The water having ways
Through the smallest slits
Between woods.
Not even fear
Can cure what seem
Like open wounds.
Once it has washed
Our laundry of memories,
We are left to see
Parts of us float
Everywhere like old clothes.
Our land is not of falling
And settling,
We ask ourselves –
Miracles,
How can man make miracles?
Like oil paintings,
Water speaks a message –
Miracle workers are not made,
Nor born,
For they die,
Making us understand
Even water’s silence
Has a sound we can hear.
