The wind in its monotony blew,

through winding streets and dark alleys,

mixed with stale breath and sweat,

seldom a relief, more a flaming

Men queued along shops of drink,

women along wells afar,

children stayed in and baked,

the old watched with weary eyes

Summer was in its scorching best,

no rains came as was promised,

predictions failed and weathermen ridiculed,

prayers sung and sacrifices made

The land was thirsty for the blood of men,

they, who had bled her dry,

disrobed her off her leafy vestments,

a dishonour to be avenged

When the last tree fell, so did they,

with every chemical, they decayed,

with all resources depleted and gone,

will money fill that acidic furnace?