Poetry

The thirst will know,
the river was there.
To lie on the grass was ultimate.
 
It was not the green,
it was not the blue,
but desire had the keyhole to look
at the fine sands,
where you stand to find the
elixir of life.
 
A crackling of joint, awakens
you. You will not wait
for the rains to come and overwhelm
the permeable umbrella.
 
A fluttering butterfly
knows, how to become floppy
and dangle like a dead leaf.
 
The stream was
drinking its own water.