The faucet turned,
rusty and slow,
squeaking, as if in pain.
A thin stream of water
cautiously flowing through the brown plastic pipes.
Hidden from sight,
water reaches tiny black holes.
A fraction of a drop is reaching the seam
trembling at the edge of the hole
blinded by bright lights
glistening, reflecting a delicate glow.
Slowly
Painfully
the drop fully emerges.
Falling
surrendering to the dry soil
embraced by its thirst.
The earth is waiting anxiously,
will there be any more?
Though the faucet is yet to turn again
at the hands of its captor
blinded with hate
refusing to let go
holding tight
to the precious drops
of life.
