The air it is heavy with white dust, The wind carries it everywhere, And it covers your skin like a fine crust, And upon your lips make a smear, Oh, and if your mouth you do open, To say your peace to the wind, You'll find your words they are broken, Your voice so feeble and thin. You hear not the rabbits off thumping, And neither the buzzing of bees, No doggies a-barking and jumping, And you'll find not a fish in the sea, Oh, but if you should come to a corn patch, Where the farmer did harvest and sow, Go sit on the old gate with no latch, And listen to cawing of crows. The flowers and trees are decaying, And the grass changes from green to brown, The tallest of tree trunks are swaying, And soon they'll come tumbling down, And if out of stupid inspiration, You think a flower you own, You'll find it a harvester nation, Then you will know you're alone. © transcript Emily Beynon