The Silent Soil

The earth lies silent beneath the burning sun,

Its soil cracked, each fissure a story begun.

No rivers to hum, no streams to sing,

Only dust in the air and the ache of everything.

Fields once green now stretch in despair,

A tapestry of brown under a sky stripped bare.

The wind moves softly, carrying particles fine,

A dance of sorrow, a rhythm of time.

Beneath the hardened crust, life whispers low,

Roots claw the soil, seeking water’s flow.

Yet moisture hides in depths too deep,

Where dreams of rain lie restless in sleep.

The trees stand like sentinels, gaunt and gray,

Leaves curled inward, longing for a day

When clouds will return, when waters pour,

When life will wake and breathe once more.

The sun beats down with relentless glare,

Turning every breath into heated air.

Shadows shrink, animals retreat,

The pulse of life slowed by the sun’s cruel heat.

Birds circle in empty skies, wings worn,

Seeking the rivers that are long since gone.

They cry to the wind, a plaintive call,

Echoing the silence that blankets all.

In villages where the dust settles thick,

People move slowly, their movements slick

With weariness, hope dimmed yet still alive,

Learning to endure, to persist, to survive.

Hands cracked and rough, faces lined,

Each wrinkle a map of drought defined.

They till the soil, though it resists,

Planting seeds that may not exist.

Yet even here, in this parched domain,

Life persists, subtle and plain.

Beneath the cracked and brittle floor,

Tiny shoots dream of rain once more.

Small creatures burrow, unseen, unheard,

In the quiet corners of this harsh, dry world.

Their survival is patience, their song is still,

A testament to nature’s enduring will.

The wind tells tales through the empty plains,

Of rivers that danced and summer rains.

Of green forests and golden fields,

Of bounty that the earth once yields.

Night descends, soft and cold,

Stars twinkle over soil grown old.

The moon watches with gentle light,

Illuminating the scars of a land in plight.

In the quiet, there is a solemn grace,

A waiting, a hope for the storm’s embrace.

For every crack in the earth’s dry skin

Holds a promise of what might begin.

Children wander with bare, dusty feet,

Learning from soil both bitter and sweet.

They gather seeds and whisper prayers,

Hoping for rain in the parched air.

The clouds may hide, the sky may burn,

Yet beneath the surface, life will turn.

A dormant seed, a stubborn root,

Will one day rise to bear fruit.

Time is patient, the earth is wise,

Even in drought, she never dies.

Her silent heartbeat flows unseen,

A rhythm of life that has always been.

The dry earth is a mirror, cracked and raw,

Reflecting the struggle, the human flaw.

Yet in her patience, a lesson clear:

To endure, to wait, to revere.

For storms will come, the rains will fall,

And life will answer the ancient call.

Rivers will swell, forests will grow,

And the parched land will breathe and glow.

But until that day, she whispers still,

Her voice in the wind, her call on the hill.

A song of sorrow, a prayer, a plea,

A reminder of balance, of what must be.

Cracked veins of earth, beneath the sun’s harsh gaze,

Hold secrets of centuries, of endless days.

And those who listen, who honor, who care,

Will find hope in the soil, still waiting there.

So bow to the earth, respect her might,

Even when she seems stripped of light.

For dry though she is, her spirit remains,

A reservoir of life in parched veins.

Remember her scars, remember her pain,

But never forget the life she sustains.

For the dry earth teaches, in patient tone,

That even in barrenness, life finds a home.