Warm. Hay. Needle.

The sky

When the sky is clean,
We see peace, serene.
The white doves race in midair
We see them when we lift up our heads.
The breeze is soft and gently carries the hair.
We meet the sheep and the shepherd on green lands.

But when the mood of the cloud swings
We will not hear the bird sing
Eclipse of a bloody sun and a dark moon
The wind comes violently upon our roofs
Ten plagues in one day
Dry farms
Empty hays

Tochi