In the days of the locusts,
The spirit of our land
Dwelt in the valleys.
In the mountain mists
Our fathers worshipped
And were blessed.

In the summer times;
The times of purifying
When warring skies clashed
With fiery rage
And thundered torrential anger
On forests dark and haunted,
Our land was watered
And brook and frog
Duetted the earth giving birth.

Parched now
The crossing place
Where once the twinkling eye
Of the lurking killer
Stalked with satanic stealth
The thirsty doe,
And the hippo . . .
In copious obsequious nudity
Cavorted on the stream bank.

Now
The still haze;
Dust shrouded the defiled mountain;
The discordant ear-piercing shrill
Of the shimmering noon-day heat
Unabaiting;
The nose-blistering breath-sucking air;
The rebuking languid cow stare
And the cynical smiling ass.

Lonely,
Lonely barren, now
Stands the fig tree,
Charred, shade-less
At the resting place.

And the rain:
A distant rumbling rumour,
A dim flicker
In the evening light;
A dying convulsion
Like a spent, aged lover.