For lo, did we not, in December
Forget the heat wave of July.
In bitter cold, do I remember
The terror of that cloudless sky.

The blazing sun crashed from the heavens
Onto our desert fields of drought,
And every night, just after seven,
We'd sleep, tomorrows luck in doubt.

Hope, like our water storage hither
Had almost dried beyond despair
As, scorched to death, our plants did whither
And almost burst to flames, I swear.

My mind cannot escape that picture.
The heat's unyielding grasp did hold...
My ice-cold fingers write these scriptures
On frozen paper in the cold.

And now, six months have passed so quickly.
We had no time to be prepared.
Now we're not burning, now we're sickly,
Victims to the blizzard out there.

And as I sit here, with my writing,
Inside, with nearly frozen ink,
I reminisce October's lightning,
And for these sorrows past, I think:

After how many past misfortunes
Is it more trouble than it's worth
To stay home, and to never ponder
Abandoning a cursed earth?