Thirst

Blue pipes on white walls like a dull creek,
Piercing down concrete on a cloudy day.
A forest roof, with ferns for trees, and 
Mossy plants, amidst blocks: Scattered like
Painted pines. Paint worn off, its skin peeled 
From a wound, and empty windows voiced the breeze.
All distant echoes, of crows, pigeons and quarrel, or
A blind tree laughing and having a conversation with
The crowd: of the light that might shine again when
A finger pressed the switch. Showing the way to that
Blind man  by his walking stick, and hatched in nests
Of sparrows under the roof, a shelter, more from the sun 
Then rain; beside a drain that blocked the water by a pond:
From where the rats would drink when night fell.