By Hiner Spees
I try not to move. My skin is saturated with heat.
The eyes flooded with light. Even the shadows are defeated.
In the distance rumbles a lonely tractor. I smell cut grass.
Later I splash water into the face, over my neck. As it trickles down my back, I look up.
The dark sky promises relief.
Night falls, yet sleep does not come. Lightning and thunder remain distant. Every breathing being longs for the rain, for cool and fresh air.
In vain. Maybe tomorrow.