The rain falls gentle on my mind;
And taps a sweet refrain.
It pitter patters in my heart;
And soothes my heat-stressed brain.
Survival was all I thought,
As days, then months, came without a drop.
When my crops and animals withered and died,
And I struggled in the heat and drought.
This land that was so free and bountiful,
Cost me everything.
Until I scratched day-to-day,
And prayed for sweet rain.
A cool wind blows from the north,
As the rain falls all around.
The old and weak are all dead,
But the young and strong will rebound.
The hounds of death were at my door,
But, I, somehow, held on.
I listen to the rain on the roof,
And mourn what is gone.
The sweet rain will bring bounty back,
And plenty to the plain.
But it is too little, too late for me,
Because, I alone, remain.
Crying in the sweet rain.
Copyright 1998 © Ronald W. Hull