When the land is parched, and throats dry
the hot air blows and the birds go shy
When the dogs incessantly pant away
and little children refuse to play
When lips are dry and salt streaks the
skin
when tempers flare and patience runs thin
When the streets are quiet, and ponds all
flaked
the sky is pale and land is baked
When the air hangs still, and trees don't
sway
the plants dry out and hope fades away
When the haze is history, killed by the wave
and the distant wintery dream, the only
solace
Let’s, then spare a thought for those who
toil
trudging in this heat, the sons of the
soil
Labourers, rickshaw pullers, farmers, all along
for dignity in labour, ‘sweat’ is their
sweet song
The unforgiving summer should make us
realise
the calamity next year will be of a bigger
size
Conserving Mother Nature, is the only way
wise
her wrath en masse, else will be the price
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