Broken land has long since died,
clouds now for years have lied.
The awaited rains so often fail.
Million’s hearts with hunger wail.
Scorching sun bears to burn.
Hardened tilth, refuses to turn.
No burden beast left with a drive,
nor baked son who harkens strive.
The wooden yolk cracked and dry,
as sheep and dogs all lazy lie.
Village square where elders sat,
laughed and jeered, tobacco spat.
Drinks they downed by the score,
with caution now in tea cups pour.
“Targa clan’s women are whores….
incredible tusks of a shot down boar.”
Broken dangles the shanty’s door,
and hollow rings the folksy lore.
Humming wheel of miller’s store.
Hurt and pain of farmers bore.
That drove it once, the feed is dry,
at parks no more the children cry.
Silent cringes the neighbor’s cat.
Now scarce to see a scurrying rat.
The calling kith, from dusty deed,
watch with horror, our lives bleed.
Wordless in graves our fallen kin.
While we entombed in our dusty bin.
Hear their footsteps echo still.
As we slink! The graveyards fill