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drought Leaves, upturned like the palms of beggars, beseech the heavens with a desperate prayer for rain. Promising clouds, the shade of lead crystal, and reassuring winds offer covenants of sweet relief to the parched, weakened trees. But the vow is broken and the clouds retreat from the sun. It assaults the land below it, and the dusty, bronze ground cracks in thirst. Meanwhile... a poet vacantly stares at barren paper. His palms are clenched like dry, withered leaves He implores the heavens for a trickle of inspiration. But the muses pass by like the promising clouds. |
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