Dry Fields

The air is fresh over the dancing trees on the horizon
the deep forest is no longer there, just the yellow ground
the desertification of the electorate
all those votes they poured into the drain

All those weeds growing in the dry fields
brown straw waving gently in the fragmented winds
north south west and sometimes east they bend

and during the forest fire
the burning sensation in your eyes
feels like a denial of history
the weaving breeze dissipates
and removes memory