THE  DROUGHT

 

                Have we forgotten how it is to weep,

                And taught the very clouds to curb their rain?

                Have we anaesthetised all joy and pain

                And trapped creation in this arid sleep,

                Where dreams are mean and dry-eyed spectres creep

                With begging bowls?  If we could weep again,

                 Could care sufficiently to break the chain

                 That binds our hearts and offer what we keep

                 Imprisoned there, would earth recuperate

                 The mercy in our tears?  Would fields that slept

                 Awake;  would fruit and flowers proliferate

                 And streams make music from the sobs we kept

                 Held tight in burning throats?  Tears consecrate:

                 Christ looked upon Jerusalem and wept.

 

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