Hold your brown faced child to your chest,
Think of all the years before,
Her rising from the ground with youthful ambition,
Her dancing, careless, through the night,
How you miss her whistling in the wind.
Her soft chatter across the field,
Cry, mother, until your tears feed the soil,
But still the rain will not come.
Hold your brown faced faith to your chest,
Think of birth and birth again,
Until the path from womb to grace is blurred.
From dust to dust they marched before you,
Still with more than dust to keep,
They laugh now where they lay,
Taunting and cruel,
Pray until you appease their souls,
But still the rain will not come.
