Opened are my wounds
Under the monstrous sun.
Cracked, wrinkled, withered/weathered
And drained to my skulls.
I long for the dark clouds of Her hair
Hovering over my blurred sky;
Moist air that fills cracks/hearts
Flowing from Her shivering lips.
I am on my death-bed,
Waiting for a drop of Her ooze.
Not to quench my thirst, Oh Brother!
But to feel my tongue,
To tell the swellheaded sun
That I am still alive.
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