Locust buzz a ravenous hunger,

For it is their year.

The greenery cringes,

Awaiting its turn,

Their livelihood sacrificed.

Heat, thick and moist, absorbs the locust song.

The ground begs for the cool, relaxing rain.

But the clouds refuse to release a single drop.

Maybe later, they sigh. Maybe later…

They block the vicious sun and shadow a worn man.

Tired from fighting.

His limp stature fades to a standstill.

He drops to hands and knees,

Wilting to the spurned, cracked soil, he sighs.

Maybe later…

The clouds exhale as the breath of God tickles them.

They release the burden bestowed upon them to all below.

The ground drinks.

The locusts cease.

The man gives up his last breath,

A tribute to the Creator.

Never a finale.