East Bank of Euphrates
The fish are very angry, and wish the sun would finally stop, Robbing their already depleted river, drop by evaporating drop, They know not, why their water, is vanishing with a shroud, And then sun cannot tell them, it is
Cloudburst
How often do you notice the death of a single dream, Seeing the last drop dry up from its parched stream, But you don’t really mind, pronouncing not even a tiny scream, As if having anticipated they were all meant