The seeds were sown,
a hopeful, scattered hand,
Across the barren,
sun-baked, thirsty land.
A promise whispered,
of a vibrant hue,
Of life reborn, a verdant,
fresh debut.
But the wind got there first,
a restless, sweeping gust,
A swirling dervish,
born of sun and dust.
It danced and howled,
a wild, untamed desire,
Long before it
caught like a fire.
It snatched the seeds,
like secrets on the breeze,
And scattered them among
the withered trees,
Across the canyons,
over rocky plains,
A whispered loss, in dry
and dusty strains.
The farmer watched,
a shadow in his eye,
As hope was lifted,
to the empty sky.
He felt the sting,
of efforts gone astray,
His dreams dispersed,
in disarray.
The seeds were lost,
before they found their root,
Before the promise
of a fragile shoot.
A silent sorrow,
etched upon the land,
A fallen dream, slipped
from a weary hand.
The wind moved on,
its fury briefly spent,
A fleeting chaos,
heaven-sent.
And left behind,
a landscape stark and bare,
A whispered echo,
fading in the air.
Long before it caught
like a fire, bright and bold,
The wind had claimed
the story, yet untold.
A tale of promise,
withered in the blast,
A future stolen,
by a moment, passed.