Five years down the line
Not even to show is there grain
Have these lazy moons died really?
Now kneeling has become the best trade
And with dusty dry baskets people parade.
Brown dust paints the roadsides
As the occasional rusty head teacher’s junk passes
Jiggers decorate the dirty dry toes of the aged
Bellied children with sunken eyes
With stubborn flies
And shallow sandy graves replicate.
He bellows from his outstretched pot belly
Collect water, collect the water!
Fighting for us for five fine years
Fierce fears of the famine clog our hearts
Fighting for our fair share of the rain
Says it is raining now
Blood and vapour from our sweat?
No one can prove the fight
Checking whether the limo is as scarred as our skins
For men with acres of chests and sacks for arms
In dark clothes and hidden eyes
Speaking some tongue foreign to the ear
Protect the machine from our poor eyes
The one I hear is so shiny it reflects
Our wealth of life and rain.
The rain is dry
Lest he mocks the torrents from our eyes
The thunder and lightning
Make our containers even drier
Heavy cheers and ululations shall kill the deaf
His welcome to speak
Give me again
To bring more rain
New banknotes shall exchange hands
A ticket for five more years.