06-15-2019, 03:24 PM
Drought
Gazed through the burnt countryside,
this forgotten land,
once a field of blossoms,
soil for the plowing man.
Witnessed green grass.
Now which, is but a memory.
Burnt trees black, in forgotten rows.
A vision of our destiny.
Crunch from the yellow grass,
thirsts for touch before death.
Hope withers, as if rain from sky.
Caretakers tears, won't stop fires eye.
Eight years pass, March the fifth.
Shadows move covering decay.
Cold carries cloudbursts, cleansing certainty.
That this drought will never end.
Gazed through the burnt countryside,
this forgotten land,
once a field of blossoms,
soil for the plowing man.
Witnessed green grass.
Now which, is but a memory.
Burnt trees black, in forgotten rows.
A vision of our destiny.
Crunch from the yellow grass,
thirsts for touch before death.
Hope withers, as if rain from sky.
Caretakers tears, won't stop fires eye.
Eight years pass, March the fifth.
Shadows move covering decay.
Cold carries cloudbursts, cleansing certainty.
That this drought will never end.
Only one thing is impossible for God: To find any sense in any copyright law on the planet.
--mark twain
Bunx
--mark twain
Bunx