What of it all, we hope and the blackened crisp of corpses crackle with flame.
The husks of homes once happily lived in now like empty skulls about the land.
Do you hope? Dare to dream? Is your desire for yourself, or for others?
Under the scene of wanton waste, and well below the depths of the earth: a chamber where water flows.
Will it spring up for us? or is it impossibly low, beneath our need?
This is hope, my precious hope, and it is yet beneath my feet.
Come up to me, and quell my yearning; spring up, ye hope and wet the land.
Be not so low, so far away, so deep beneath the earth in time of need…
Will the river become my life? Will the hidden river rise?
Within my heart I hear her tinkling… when I listen she’s not faint.
Yet as the fire rages, and scorches as it goes, I wonder how, I wonder what…
And as a lkng lost fish, I ask: “what is water like, again?”