all the rivers dried,
rocky stone,
and fields full of bones,
the life here fled,
quick,
as the big dry ate up
everything.
All these waters gone,
so long wanted,
so long needed,
all these farms are dry,
empty houses,
roofs open to sky.
All these empty places,
where there once was toil,
and work
and reward,
dust no matter how how hard they tried.
No healing power of the earth here,
just dust,
washed up on the shores of
empty fields,
empty husks,
died.
