Ash to Dust

Once the ground could speak,
but now it cracks in silence.

The cows walk ribs across the plain.
The lake is now a bed of pain.
In Chaco's dust, the children play—
Their sky forgot to rain today.

The Sahel grows where gardens died.
The wells remember when they cried.
No seed can dream beneath this sun.
The green has learned to run.

Ash to dust.
Dry to bone.
It doesn’t rain
where we’ve grown.

The corn bends low with brittle hands.
No song remains across the land.
The roots are ghosts beneath the feet,
And mothers boil the heat.

Ash to dust.
Dry to bone.
It doesn’t rain
where we’ve grown.

The redwoods blaze without a fight.
The rivers whisper out of sight.
The smoke writes names across the sky,
But no one asks them why.

The vines in Spain now bake by noon.
The Danube hums a lower tune.
In Russia’s north, the ground unseals—
And wakes what time conceals.

Ash to dust.
Dry to bone.
It doesn’t rain
where we’ve grown.

The Ganges shrinks, the wells retreat.
The sky in Lahore bleeds with heat.
The cows lie down. The wind stands still.
And thirst forgets the will.

The world will sweat until it sleeps.
And no one sows what no one keeps.
Ash to dust. Ash to dust.
Even the rain has lost its trust.

The sun burns louder in the sand.
The hands that plant don't understand.
Australia dreams in fire and fear.
Its rivers disappear.

Ash to dust.
Dry to bone.
It doesn’t rain
where we’ve grown.

Ash to dust.
Ash to dust.
We prayed for rain—
but breathed in dust.

The earth still turns,
but softer now.
Each spin,
a thirst.
Each step,
a vow.