It is not as we imagined.
It is not as we were told.
The dendritic agent is fluid as we deduced,
and flows strongly away from higher territories,
but the surface seems alive.
It sings and small drops dance above it,
twinkling in the rays of the sun.
Dimples and rills catch the light
and mesmerize onlookers.
It is never still; sparkling and shimmering,
frothing over rocks.
I watched it fall from a great height
thundering and splashing,
creating a mist and a rainbow.
The colours we never see.
In lands where there is little of what they call water
the resemblance to home is dramatic.
Grey and red dust accumulate and the green is missing.
The inhabitants are trying to placate the gods.
They choose a city and knock down all the buildings
make craters in the road, and light many,
many votive fires around the rubble;
the grey plumes of smoke billowing high above them.
Then they sacrifice each other, trying to wet
the bare earth with their red, red blood.
Thousands make pilgrimages to the coast,
and drown themselves to tell the gods of their plight.
But I could tell them that once they lose
the blue and the green from their planet
it will never return. The gods are not listening.
I could tell them of our tragic past