The Drought

Unruly type of sun, willing to spare no one. From the plains up to the peaks, this heat's stealing faith from the weak. Amidst the burning breeze, from the ground up through the trees. I hear the birds complain about the lack of the rain. And it's not the same life, here the morning's like a knife, and the river's been bone dry, where the day is not fond of light. It's bearing down on me, no clouds in the sky, I hear the pines crack and cry: “There's no reason to try.”