Poem 2- My Life  Cries  out For Water.                                              

It is not Eliot’s hot water at ten,

What does  it matter if it is at eight or nine?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Nor  is it  the coldest  ring of ripple

In Majestic  Ganges’ wintry bed.                                                                     

Water flows  copious, you shiver  

Looking  at the Sun hidden, slowly coming out

Piercing  the dominant roots of cloudy caps;

While  taps  deliberately go dry and wry,

Elsewhere, man  rations water.

My life cries out for water, water,

To  dispel, break  the  solidified  nature,                                                                    

Of  Man’s  swelling  pride and hard as stone.                 

As  the adage goes, there is water even in stone,

When Stone is man’s heart.            

My life cries out  for  water, salient and

 Silent   Reaching out  many in dire need. .