None other than him matters here at the noon. The sun is an out and out autocrat the sky, he singularly rules,without any apology to anyone. He has banished all the clouds; not even the faint trace of fluffy, milky white strands seemingly unstoppable till the far horizon.
This is when his hidden intention to scorch all at sight is at it's atrocious peak, which would lead to his decline.
Under the low hanging sky the earth parched dry, is a cry for mercy.Sun now is a roaring water fall of heat waves lash one after the other.
The village of thatched mud huts stand dazed, like it's women in this ascending symphony of pain not feeling any difference of tune, this is what it always been. It's a living miracle, it still exists fighting the vagaries of winds and the sun not willing to collapse as dunes of dust, which would have been a better solution.
The little girls from a school the only secret this village keeps, in midday break pour out like ants from hidden anthills, scurrying to all directions, trying to cheat the wind spitting fire.
A frail old woman, her skin sun scorched,dark, deeply furrowed and folded a true face of resistance life capable of in the face of the attack of armies of obliteration, sweating all over, sits under a tamarind tree all twigs and only few patches of weak green, cobbling for a living, as if it is her day last here.
Face to face with a village almost in all time drout