The Holidays

The holidays: when tanks are parched
And empty; clank, lie thin;
Useless; fit for nothing. When the body
Cries in desperation, a silent shout.
There is no salvation,
Except in time and lasting out.

Look! A skull lies on the carpet,
Too old, too young or too exhausted;
Overcome by lethargy, or lack of nourishment,
Dead, picked to the bones
By civilisation’s excessive demands.

If we survive till the rains come,
The cisterns throb and beat filling up,
Pulsating, like a ship’s engines.
The water gushes over,
Surging in, like the Atlantic tides
In winter over the cliffs of San Sebastian.