And there is a time to imagine:

through drought to finis.

So long on the parched plain,

the city of the earthquake becoming

real as myth; silent and still.

Time to feel spent sorrows fly

drinking in the desert, the ruins,

of  sorrow multiplied. 

 

 

Unable to imagine a future

in stillness a wind prepares to blow

in silence, of anger unaware

beside a grain of sand, new growth.