IClouds, dark the color of soot, dangle menacingly above,Above the land of BulambuliThe farmer gulps in an air of relief,The almost withered crops will resurrect, they will standThe clouds open up, with fury, unhinderedAs it waters Bulambuli, the plantsThe farmer breathes in an air of contentThe thirsting crops will survive, they’ll grow
IIMonday, Tuesday…Sunday1st, 2nd… 20th SeptemberThe clouds still salivating, the rain still fallingThe farmer looks above...The clouds, dark the color of soot…Laughs, mocks the farmer, Maize, sorghum, rice, cassava…Begin to drown, suffocate Untamed, endless rain falls unhindered
IIILying on a mattress of floods,Plants, floods, water, lie entangled In a bed reeking with domination, inconvenienceThe plants, do not moan, do not breatheThey die, they rot, in the wet, dirty bed of floodsEnds