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Death licks the stones of this land.
Water that fickle goddess,
She never did bless our land much.
Uncertain of her gift,
We fools waste it on rice and cotton.
Now the land has cracked and burned,
And chided us a hundred fold,
Beneath a maelstrom of regrets.
Clouds linger overhead, rumbling a little,
Yet they do not break,
Instead they shrug and vanish into vapour.
The odd random drop, reminds us what we miss,
Yet still it will not rain.
And Death licks the stones of this land .