The Eye

Thirsty,
it awaits the moisture,
Barren,
have turned all the pastures.

Fodder,
still eludes the cattle,
Discolored,
are the hesitant petals.

Incessantly,
blow the infuriating dunes,
Ominously,
echo the disastrous tunes.

Empty,
sound the earthen pots,
Counting,
the drops are the parched throats.

Impoverished,
are the souls to be seen,
Parched,
lie the fields that were green.

Adored,
it had, the prayers those were spoken,
Hopes,
of the clouds that were woven.

Occasionally,
oozes out the hopeless cry,
Tunes,
of the death now loom high.
As,
scenes from the drought enter the eye.