Don't Drink the Water

There they stand in files, pleated against the length of their clay dwellings.
Mothers cradle their young, who clutch the breast of life, waiting.
How long has it been since we've seen a reason or felt a truth?
How long has it been?
Day by day they crouch outside their homes, sieving heaps of crimson sand through callosed hands. Their fingertips numb to the steady rythm, and yet their nail beds throb after having bled a steady trickle of hope.
The well is dry and cracked and still they wait.
Still enough for the wind to catch their draped wishes in a swift breeze.
The work is hard, the tea is sweet, and they, they sweat for a faith that promises something in return.