The ground
is very dry.
The sun
stripped out all the water from her shed.
What now
remains is
dead soil.
Silent.
ungiving.
Empty.
We cry at
the sky,
that it may
crack a little,
and appease
the draught.
Who will
feed our crops?
What about
seeds we planted yesterday?
Will the
sowers be abased?
Will we eat
from our land again?
But mostly,
Who will
pray,
While the
hypocrites mourn...
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