Maybe we are

At loggerheads with the rains

As it no longer comes visiting.

Leaving our gutters unwashed,

And our containers empty.

We look to the skies,

Till cracks our necks produce

An announcement of our fatigue

Yet not a drop,

Descends on our foreheads.





Bouncing back at us

The implements unable to go deeper.,

As we launch them to the ground.

The farmer tills and toils in vain,

Seeing No space to place his seeds.

The brains bring no breakthrough,

As our waters flow as in the deadsea.

Jammed are the wheels,

With nothing willing to carry on.




Far more than a drop we need,

The rains we crave for.

Cracked now are our throats,

With our nostrils thickly blocked.

Amongst us now, hunger dwells

As catastrophe bids us welcome.