I’ll no longer sing of the affairs of men when singing won’t wring rain from the heaven. No cloud to spy no rain, no relief, only a yellow sky over a world of grief. Our fields are straw, our wells are dry, our ponds withdraw from unyielding sky. Our children cry, our elders bend low. Everything is dry; nothing will grow. We can only wait with no rain to measure, and suffer our fate. The sun’s no pleasure.