Like an incandescent brass gong
The afternoon sun
Burns in the sky

Like a boiling pan
The asphalt streets send out steam
Scaring pedestrians to travel on foot

The rushing wheels
Raise spouts of dust behind
Turning starched white into muddy tint

The undergrowth rustles below feet
A match stick can ignite a wild fire
That might grow into a conflagration

Glass windows are coated with layers of dust
Sweat trickles down the grimy faces
Of those who toil in the open

Sunbeams pelt down like rain!
Under which parasol can we seek shade,
In this sweltering desert of heat?