The
sun looks blushed and through,
By its own heat.
The desiccated white clouds,
Shredded and thrown across the vast blue sky
Longed for water.
The parched earth
Wailing over her barren womb
The trees marooned in the middle of deadpan fields
Reminds me of the life once throbbed.
The earth and sky supplicating woefully,
Yet the fiery hot wind blows,
It blows incessantly.
A sparrow looked for shelter,
Under dried leaves, yet not fallen.
With its beak agape.
A squirrel timidly rubbed its belly
Against a little patch of wet earth
In the garden pot
Yet the fiery hot wind blows,
It blows incessantly.
The child lying on the shoulder of a woman
Looks blankly, her eyes vacous,
Her little body, the remnant of her earlier
self,
Recalls the fury of the sun.
Yet…
It blows, the fiery sun.
It blows incessantly
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