.
.
let our mouth spill out
let our voices keep not shut
let our hands cleave to the strings
and plunck the tune of sandstorm.
.
eerisome winds choked us,
we quiver at it spiritual torrent,
our farmlands became barren,
a result from it unending strike.
.
we reside in the phobia of sandstorm,
like Jerry afraid of the bully; Tom,
our anxiety decends like drizzling rain,
yet our farmlands die of drought.
.
dearth came visiting our land,
our stomach in pain, grumbles loud
we are a vegetable garden,
whose fate is determined by the rumbling cloud.
.
When will our land be fertile?
So we could plant on a rich soil
Till the earth to our best,
And come out with a great harvest.

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