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It wasn't really a dream, and it wasn't really a poem.

Posted by Cathy Douglas on November 25, 2010 at 10:04 AM

I was a young woman. I was sitting on the ground in a very flat place, with my legs tucked to the side and a pitcher in front of me. The pitcher had something in it that looked and smelled like water. In front of me, behind an almost invisible barrier, lay a featureless desert. Six or seven men crawled through the desert toward me, on their knees and elbows and bellies. All of them were emaciated and wrinkled and sunburned.  They must have been very, very thirsty, but I couldn't cross the barrier.  It was only passable from their side.



I'm sure they believed I was a mirage. But having no better hope, they fixed their eyes on me and dragged their bodies through the sand.


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