To the east and the west
I look out with unrest.
Flooding my senses, cutting
Through my veins, blood seeping,
Leaking, into the eddying
Currents of time.
Mixing with water, losing
Its color, losing its taste,
Smell, texture everything's been erased.
One drop lost, another falls
My final chance to find the walls.
But, now it falls
Drop by drop, without losing color
In desperation it calls,
For recognition, response.
For it falls into the dry
Land of my palms.
--Mohan
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