The drip drip of the water drops

Into the bucket, already full

Of desires, deeds and idols.

Slow but incessant, this stream is

No sleeping aid or torture device

Even if at times its painful pace

Tortures onlookers (mockers all!)

This flowing water – clear as

Polished glass – dives joyfully in

And bit by bit drives impurities

Up, out, over the edge and onto

The floor. Look there, you can see

Lust, greed, unbelief, dead or dying

To thrive no more. The water will

Never stop, for the faucet knows

That to be pure, clean and clear

The bucket must forever overflow.