By S. T. Brant
The world is without drink: I will be its water! but it is only the
Who will be visited, not the scoundrels that haven't thirst yet have
And have their fountains that they fill from, who may drink and drink;
And who bathe their toes in water for the shadow of a smudge to
quench the blemish.
A Typhoon, I come to those, relentless until they are as lily pads upon
Then will I become a broad and endless rain to slake the dying
Who will gape into the heavens and drink god.