with every well,
you
want to hear the splash
of water
when the bucket drops
by the rope
held in your old hands.
will it run
dry. will only a cloud
of dust rise.
will love
survive?
will there be more words
to fill
the thirst, the empty page.
will there
still be memories
to analyze?
how long
can you still write
and make
tears fall from your eyes?
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