The water eats the land,
carries it away, a living thing,
The rains pour down,
finding the lowest path.

The planted seeds wash away,
leaving mud behind.
Barron dirt grows nothing,
and the farmer sighs.

Next year, next year will be good.
But the money and effort, the time
are gone, gone with the rain.
And the wind dries the mud.

He crouches in the field
as the breeze blows wispy
dried dirt through his fingers.
Next year, there will be corn.

But the money is still gone.
Without a crop to sell, how
will there be seed for next year?
Next year.