Brown, not green
Is what is around.
Dry, not wet
Is the ground.
Hot, not cool
Is the air,
Drought, not rain
Is in the air.
Dry eyes
Lift up to meet the chief’s,
Who had promised,
Water to please,
The asking dry eyes,
In summer’s drought,
Which could have been fought,
As its coming was announced,
Even before last monsoon renounced,
the world for an year,
With a promise to come back
Next year
And fill corn’s ear.
Had it known that
The corn won’t be there
When it comes back everywhere
It would have not renounced,
The world so dear to its heart.
And then the drought’s fear,
Would never had been announced.