First 197 words of the document:
The skin cracks like a pod.
There never is enough water.
Imagine the drip of it,
the small splash, echo
in a tin mug,
the voice of a kindly god.
Sometimes, the sudden rush
of fortune. The municipal pipe bursts,
silver crashes to the ground
and the flow has found
a roar of tongues. From the huts,
a congregation : every man woman
child for streets around
butts in, with pots,
brass, copper, aluminium,
and naked children
screaming in the liquid sun,
their highlights polished to perfection,
as the blessing sings
over their small bones.
This poem is about the poverty in a slum in India, where when it rains or when a water pipe
busts they celebrate the availability of water to clean, drink and cook. Water is like gold to
them. They all rush to collect as much of it as they can before the pipe is repaired or the rain
drops stops falling from the sky.