September 11th

A dry land calls for water, Her people are dusty and tired. The sun clings to his kingdom cracking riverbeds dry and killing us with every solar flare. The people are thirsty. They pray to our mother the sky. They beg for rain. They beg for the rain to wash away the lines from their faces and the grief from their hearts. Men with guns prowl outside in the shimmering midday glare, they have no need for moisture. Their hearts are dry desiccated past hydration. We are all touched by this awful drought An ocean of souls is drying up Tears still fall, yet only sparingly. Oh, how our hearts are burnt.