The scorching mid noon heat breathing down our backs
The cooler night wind nursing our scorched palms and heated hearts,
No choice but to move into imagined havens, against,
But, nurturing the cursed heat.

Our souls may rise up against, in anguish, but our voice
Wavers, in response to it’s tempt,
Content in Our Silence; rather than forbear, forthwith
In humorous discontent and fear.

No escape, no peace from the all-seeing heat haze, whatsoever
All action futile, but still hope; parasitical, in all circumstances.
That our latter kindred may be proud, “That though they failed,
Yet, they did struggle.”