What’s sad? What’s wrong? What’s broken in the world?
Whisper these questions, and the people cry:
“No shoe without a leak, no wing not furled!
The rain has come, and nothing is left dry.”
A salty rain, that slakes no thirsts, nor fields?
From whence the wind that blows so cursed a cloud?
“From lands still further East,” the East Wind yields,
“In distant seas, my weather-fields are ploughed.”
These ancient atolls grow the Earth’s own wool,
Spun from the foam of seas that should be sweet.
But west-bound tides, the briny currents pull
From shores beyond the East, where two paths meet:
West-flowing rivers drain the flood of tears,
Which sea and sky return to haunt our years.