No more rain, just something black
up there keeps spinning its yarn.

The lamb we slaughtered yesterday
moves across the sky.

It pressed its little hornless head
into our hands, waiting to be petted.

Its meek nature of a male lamb
served us very well.

Moved by some ancient bloodthirst,
we then ate and drank.

And that bitter blood won’t soak into the earth—
it just will not soak in.

Mud runs along the road, and in the cellars,
frogs and carp are breeding.

From the taps, as if from a deep wound,
red mud keeps dripping.

They who have lost their land, a house, a dear friend
look down, let out a mournful cry.

They who have lost it all to water
stare at the sky.