thirsty apocalypse

i watched a dust storm on the far bank of the ganga,
i watched the horizon blur as the earth headed into the sky,
people stumbled on through the city,
masked like bandits,
a city full of desperadoes,
trying to save their eyes.

there was a tornado twisting across the kshipra,
full of grain and fertile soil,
it crossed along a footbridge
and died amongst the saints and temples,
where mosquitos made the river boil.

on a day full of sun, sun showy with his strength,
i laid in the dry bed of the betwa
using rocks to rest my head and giving in to violent heat,
feeling stones smooth from endless waters,
and i wondered where they'd went.

o stagnant sacred rivers,
banks dusty, thirsty, foetid,
will the next rain be enough?
is this one stage in your journey
or just a slow and dirty death?

o stagnant sacred rivers,
i saw light in the storm clouds today
and imagined michaelangelo's angry god,
thundering and threatening,
but threating what i was not sure,
will he bring floods for your salvation,
or will you die with cracking lips?
will you die with us sucking at your throats?
will it be a thirsty apocalypse?