A dry and thirsty land, the red soil caked around my heart, cracks and shatters. Threatening to mar the pulsating organ which lies beneath, I reach my end. This is enough silence. Rain too late pours over stubborn clay. Drink, I gird my soul to lap at the soil and weep, too dehydrated to create tears, for what is lost in drought. It is impossible. Too course, too arid, I'm done for.
And then...
...the soil begins to soften.
To be continued.
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