The heat penetrated each layer of skin
Burning, until it heated blood,
Blood that congealed into rust.


The landscape covered in yellow grass
like an epidermis to the soul: Receptive.


No Rain or Water has come for an age,
Distant memories of damp echo in this landscape.
Summer has been eternal,
Each day long.


The abundant heat with fervor has,
Created arid flakes of skin that now fall like snow
A porous white interior yearns for water,
That promises like a dream
To flush through caverns,
Like blood that flows within claret veins.


Dry head leaves no moisture to wet the tongue,
No moisture left to sweat.
Appearances say that cycle has stopped,
Had ended here in summer.


Presently this parched landscape will ignite,
Throws flames of golden glows,
Reaching horizon skies.
Driving thick grey clouds for miles,
It will be then that the rain does come.


Water replenishing, carrying nutrients through internal veins
Flushing fast flooding each crevice,
Pouring down on my head, wetting my hands
These drips will enter my mouth with no taste of salt.


Surrounding my body dripping down, flushing, flourishing
The coolness will then be felt across this landscape of my body
Across each hill and leaving residues in valleys.


The fire shall be sustenance that releases,
Goodness from the barren soil,
And water shall be the carrier
That brings embryos of green.


When my body is wet and dripping,
And witnessing tales of the sea.
When everything cleansed,
I shall sit in the valley of water,
A spectator who witnessed God.


The Artist, 1996