Upon the dusty road that assaults the skin,
where sweat crusts in salt upon the brow,
and the air transmutes into iron, pressing down—
the traveler bows low beneath thirst’s oppression.
There, even haughty princes in bejeweled robes
would ransom kingdoms for one moment’s grace
beneath its cool, flowing caress.

At the silent poles, where marrow freezes,
and the soul hardens into ice,
the body craves not gilded halls
nor velvet cushions or opulent feasts—
but melts only beneath a humble miracle
heat that neither sears nor burns,
touch that neither bruises nor pricks,
but tenderly melts those icicles of bone.

To linger beneath is rebirth—
rivuletted fingers caress every fold,
each sorrow, each exhaustion,
with patience more tender than any lover.
It finds the hollows where longing huddles,
the crevices where memory clings,
and washes away, yet does not erase,
leaving one luminous and reborn—
a desert that at last remembers spring.

What banquet, what marble palace,
what perfumed chambers of emperors
could rival this steamy embrace?
The satiny bed is for forgetting;
this rain of liquid rapture
is for exalting, naked,
body and soul rejuvenated.

Yet how fragile the covenant—
once, waters fell aplenty
to lavish themselves upon our skin;
tomorrow, perhaps, the cisterns echo hollow,
and their gift is offered no more.

So cherish it.
Filter, gather, pour again, unending.
Treat each drop as a jewel,
the last note of a never-repeated song.
When the sky withholds its kindness,
and Earth’s wellsprings but distant longings,
recall how it felt:
your secret rain within four walls,
solace no monarch could command,
joy, intimate and infinite,
vanished, but never mercifully forgotten.