A "forked" poem: And Fountains in the Midst of the Valleys
The original-version poem-in-progress, in its current draft, is in ozarque's LiveJournal, here. This poem here is an "alternate-universe" version of that poem. In the Open Source movement for software development, this sort of thing is called a "fork" of the project.
This is my Draft #2, and corresponds to ozarque's Draft #10.
###
And Fountains in the Midst of the Valleys
out of your life-ing-low planet, your radio ripple-ings.
inside your lakes and your oceans, those increase-ing poison-ings;
might your canteen-ing the why?
That was the week when the lowest-grade unrationed water at Big-Mart cost
twenty-nine worldlies and ninety-nine cents a liter on sale.
That was the week when Pan-Earthian Airlines
tripled the price of the water served on intercontinental flights.
That was the week when the daily statistics for world-wide deaths by thirst
were shoved off the bottom of headline pages
and then were exempted from Freedom of Information lawsuits altogether;
when Parliament voted the drinking of unauthorized water
a capital offense (what would they drink in prison, anyway?);
when Terran Waters Corp.
reported third quarter profits: sixty-eight billion worldlies.
Water flows, freely, even still...
fresh and crisp and always will,
tainted no more by the stain of pollution.
Water flows,
guaranteed water,
thanks to our work at Flowing Waters.
And that was the week when we celebrated,
dutifully,
my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary.
We sat round the table that night,
my parents and we three daughters.
There was steaming bouillon.
There were crunchy tiny whole lettuces.
There was a tender flatbread, crusted with seeds.
There was flaky filet of sole amandine.
There were delicate sweet potatoes, roasted in olive oil.
There was creamy brie and night-black bitter chocolate.
There was sharp cold lemon ice, with raspberries bursting tiny sweetnesses.
And there was fine water --
a separate cut-glass pitcher-full
for each one of us.
My father can afford
a separate cut-glass pitcher-full
for each one of us.
Water flows, blessedly, even still...
safe and clean and always will,
tainted no more by the sin of war.
Water flows,
purified water,
thanks to our work at Standard Waters.
That was the week when Delano Harg and his team
won the Nobel Prize for their work in secriculture,
for their gene-engineered vegetables and fruits and cactus flowers
that grow with almost no water at all.
That was the week when crude water spiked
at three thousand worldlies a barrel
on the international spot market.
My mother gave my father a journal bound in heavy leather,
smooth and thick as butter, with stiff translucent parchment pages,
and a shining clear cobalt-glass fountain pen.
My father gave my mother a heavy necklace,
silver links with a dozen thumb-sized diamond vials
falling like crystalline teardrops.
Within the vials, the water gleamed,
pure and cool and precious and forever shut away.
Enough to drive a thirsty child insane.
Water flows, measuredly, even still...
cool and wet and always will,
tainted no more by the crime of rebellion.
Water flows,
authorized water,
thanks to our work at Terran Waters.
My sisters said nothing at all. But I'm not them.
I stood up, looked straight at my father, and said, to his face:
I'm guessing that the card reads,
LET THEM DRINK CHAMPAGNE!
out of that life-ing-none planet, her radio ripple-eds;
towards us her ripple-eds why.
inside the lakes and the oceans, such end-ing-less poison-eds;
not our canteen-ed the why.
not our canteen-ing it now.
This is my Draft #2, and corresponds to ozarque's Draft #10.
###
And Fountains in the Midst of the Valleys
out of your life-ing-low planet, your radio ripple-ings.
inside your lakes and your oceans, those increase-ing poison-ings;
might your canteen-ing the why?
That was the week when the lowest-grade unrationed water at Big-Mart cost
twenty-nine worldlies and ninety-nine cents a liter on sale.
That was the week when Pan-Earthian Airlines
tripled the price of the water served on intercontinental flights.
That was the week when the daily statistics for world-wide deaths by thirst
were shoved off the bottom of headline pages
and then were exempted from Freedom of Information lawsuits altogether;
when Parliament voted the drinking of unauthorized water
a capital offense (what would they drink in prison, anyway?);
when Terran Waters Corp.
reported third quarter profits: sixty-eight billion worldlies.
Water flows, freely, even still...
fresh and crisp and always will,
tainted no more by the stain of pollution.
Water flows,
guaranteed water,
thanks to our work at Flowing Waters.
And that was the week when we celebrated,
dutifully,
my parents' fiftieth wedding anniversary.
We sat round the table that night,
my parents and we three daughters.
There was steaming bouillon.
There were crunchy tiny whole lettuces.
There was a tender flatbread, crusted with seeds.
There was flaky filet of sole amandine.
There were delicate sweet potatoes, roasted in olive oil.
There was creamy brie and night-black bitter chocolate.
There was sharp cold lemon ice, with raspberries bursting tiny sweetnesses.
And there was fine water --
a separate cut-glass pitcher-full
for each one of us.
My father can afford
a separate cut-glass pitcher-full
for each one of us.
Water flows, blessedly, even still...
safe and clean and always will,
tainted no more by the sin of war.
Water flows,
purified water,
thanks to our work at Standard Waters.
That was the week when Delano Harg and his team
won the Nobel Prize for their work in secriculture,
for their gene-engineered vegetables and fruits and cactus flowers
that grow with almost no water at all.
That was the week when crude water spiked
at three thousand worldlies a barrel
on the international spot market.
My mother gave my father a journal bound in heavy leather,
smooth and thick as butter, with stiff translucent parchment pages,
and a shining clear cobalt-glass fountain pen.
My father gave my mother a heavy necklace,
silver links with a dozen thumb-sized diamond vials
falling like crystalline teardrops.
Within the vials, the water gleamed,
pure and cool and precious and forever shut away.
Enough to drive a thirsty child insane.
Water flows, measuredly, even still...
cool and wet and always will,
tainted no more by the crime of rebellion.
Water flows,
authorized water,
thanks to our work at Terran Waters.
My sisters said nothing at all. But I'm not them.
I stood up, looked straight at my father, and said, to his face:
I'm guessing that the card reads,
LET THEM DRINK CHAMPAGNE!
out of that life-ing-none planet, her radio ripple-eds;
towards us her ripple-eds why.
inside the lakes and the oceans, such end-ing-less poison-eds;
not our canteen-ed the why.
not our canteen-ing it now.