The summer wind blows dry and hot,
In an ever-present fashion,
But still it is day, and night it is not,
So we wait for the heat to pass.
From a field of flowers comes a radiant glow
As they soak up the sun with their might,
But then the wind brings a hot summer's blow,
And the petals fall of as they wilt.
It has not rained in 8 dusty years,
And with drought and famine it comes,
The thought of water, to my eyes, brings tears,
As I wait for the sun to burn out.