There is a smell of summer rain,
The ground is still wet.
And brown leaves are not in pain,
However, not dead yet.
The water runs between white stones.
It forms a tiny stream.
One day it’ll flood abandoned domes
And will rise up as steam.
The sun will light this weakened dale
So beautiful asleep.
People will sink it in their ale,
Up will its heart not leap.
I feel not bad for this sick meadow,
Its cayotes are not rich.
This place with happiness does endow
My soul in its bleach.