The Well

The thirsty camel 
Is on his knees
A hot sand-coloured noon


Nothing moves

I go to the well alone
Leaving behind
The bulk burden 

Stubborness

I hear Him crying
Beneath a cypress shade

My hand touches cold
Clear water

Blessed refreshment
On parched lips
Ointment for bleary eyes

I see Him

Collapsed against
The tree trunk
Face sunk in

Pulled-up knees
Bare feet blistered
Bruised

I hold Him

Giving Him to drink
Bathing His sacred
Feet

I have expectations
Of Him

The water that quenches
All thirst

I want it 

Not now
Not here
He says

There is a distant fall

Rough rocks the road
I must traverse thirsting
All the more

Till I am parched enough

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