Caracas, Drought

Two years of Easter drought has wrapped
the city in a drunken haze.  Between the spires
of rancid condos, the amber lights of residence
blink through the fog to parody
how atmosphere flickers the candles
of the Milky Way.

At night, and in such parchments
all the more, it makes no sense
to tell if these hilly windows
are proper homes or shanties.
Only from the teary beacons of shelter
can we ponder and sleep.

The day has painted the once green slopes
in ochre, has left for hay what once swayed
with bloom and vine.  The trees which draw
the last shot waters from the soil foliate still
in densing filth.   The citizens carry on
as if any day the promised sky
will open with mercy.

Cracked wells and gutted rivers
banner nothing.  Once souls
might have sung and lit a regiment
of votives on an altar sill,
bartered sins away for rain.
Now they strangle in traffic
and hunt fading cash.
The needed well can never be lost.