Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season. T. S. Eliot, “Gerontion”

I am not he who was at the hot gates of Thermopylae, nor he who strode the banks of the River Kwai.

Neither devil nor king. I am of young age, yet vestigial.

Wanting only for the perennial comforts which strong men have afforded to our time.

I am rain, and I shall pass, never bothering, never wanting,

pitter        patter        pitter        patter

Stagnant Iteru, the dry season nears its close.

But look now, here is the river delta, silty and filthy,

The surface ripples with teardrops, a thousand tranquilities.

“Of course, not a problem.” “Shall I lie over and turn rubber mat?”

pitter        patter        pitter        patter

Mercurial currents rise beneath. Omnia mutantur, nihil interit.

Somewhere in the low lands the water rises, buoyed by infinitesimals.

Look now, how the dam walls bow inwards under Sisyphean load.

At the city walls, young men plug the dyke, fingers of Atlas, accusing the river.

pitter        patter        pitter        patter

Iteru does what it has always done, in these tranquil times of weak men.

When monsoon comes to pass.