| Here is no water but only rock | |
| Rock and no water and the sandy road | |
| The road winding above among the mountains | |
| Which are mountains of rock without water | |
| If there were water we should stop and drink | |
| Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think | |
| Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand | |
| If there were only water amongst the rock | |
| Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit | |
| Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit | |
| There is not even silence in the mountains | |
| But dry sterile thunder without rain | |
| There is not even solitude in the mountains | |
| But red sullen faces sneer and snarl | |
From doors of mudcracked houses
 If there were water | |
| And no rock | |
| If there were rock | |
| And also water | |
| And water | |
| A spring | |
| A pool among the rock | |
| If there were the sound of water only | |
| Not the cicada | |
| And dry grass singing | |
| But sound of water over a rock | |
| Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees | |
| Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop | |
But there is no water
T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). The Waste Land. 1922. and of course the Photos are made by me.
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