At the end of the rains there is a fire.
Engulfing the lush blades of green,
once heavy with an unwanted desire.
As if rusted,
the sun still blaring.
In this drought,
longing for the rains of tomorrow
Comes an ill-fitted cure.
Sporadic rain as if a tease
Bring what should be drops of life
Yet no, with each shower
more pain is to follow
Watch the the grass burn under the rays of the sun.