His words were drained
the letters were picked up by crows.

No sentence made by the eye
says anything to anyone,
the dry south wind passes by insulted through
our bones and our seasons,
poor and black despaired.

The farmers scratch their beard with a short breath,
their work is lost,
their tongue dries.
The rain makers get loose, the bells ring,
the heat has crucified the field,
the dust rustles
in the empty tardiness.