The dusty winds with hotter haze,
Alert the life to longer days,
Which blur together without a pit,
And command survivors to submit.
When later nights call to awake,
The sun's fast fury, to scorch and bake,
All those around, who stand beneath,
The open sky, their only sheath.
When land is parched more than the throat,
And the fronds dont have a place to float,
When burrows form below the land,
Making hollow mazes in the sand.
Only water can douse the hellish heat,
And make the cycle again complete,
But it hides away, and cant be found,
Buried below the sacred ground.
And when all else fails, the clouds do bring,
A surge of rain, and with it sing,
The poem that the gods beseech,
Will save us from next summer's reach.
