There have been times that a black flood
Flowed out from a narrow source
Spreading out across fertile fields
That seemed to languish under snow
Marking them and making them strangely fertile
Now
The flow ebbs
The reservoirs are emptying
What was a flood is now a trickle
And there does not seem to be rain coming
The fields yield but few crops
And those that grow are sickly
Fruit withering on the vine
Kernels of grain shriveled and mean
Good for animal feed perhaps
But nothing more
And likely not even so much
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