Now it is almost night, from the bronzey soft
sky
jugfull after
jugfull of pure white liquid fire, bright white
tipples over and spills
down,
and is
gone
and gold-bronze
flutters beat through the thick upper air.
And as the electric liquid
pours out, sometimes
a still brighter white snake wriggles among it, spilled
and tumbling wriggling down the
sky:
and then the
heavens cackle with uncouth sounds.
And the rain won’t come, the rain refuses to
come!
This is the
electricity that man is supposed to have mastered
chained, subjugated to his
use!
supposed
to!