By Frederick Ostrovskis-Wilkes

The drought is hard,
Soil that once bore the fruit
and fed the thirst of spreading roots
now charred, sand and ash,
A cancer spreading through the plain,
Dancing on the burning graves of
those that seek the weeping rain,
Drown them, flood their wounds.

Resilient, he stands,
Leather skin with arms of spears
and pride to fill the space of fear
ravaging the lands

A warrior bound in blood
and mud to these barren sands,
Waiting for the night to call,
The pale blanket of moonlight’s shawl
to hold it,
hand in hand.


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