Revival Poem by Benjamin Wiche

It's like shot from the riffle,
words that left the lips,
the greens fading away,
desert encroaching, sun scorching,
destroying the shelters,
chaos here and there,
seeking for a way out,
praying, hoping for the rain to
bring back the greens
and laughter on the lips,
but,
the sky seem to be weak,
shall the inhabitants die,
from the showers of many lies
and hands of rocky hearts,
let the tears and sweats
of the sober hearts
reach the heavenly with hope
to see the greens again.