Pestilence

How hurriedly
I open the faucet
To my burning throat
After the toil of the day and the night
And how, more languidly
I try to tap off the water
of its flow
Flowing drop by drop
Mingling the thirst and
my gloomy thoughts, in between;
‘am afraid
if it could yield not to my wounds
and spill
out of the sink
That could clot, and
Dapple in the light of sorrow
The pestilence
Spreading around

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