WHEN THE RAINS COME LATE

sometimes, the rains come late.

inundated, the parched fields drown in torrents they long have wanted. the promises come in retrospect of what should have been - green, lush, and verdant. now, blessings become calamitous surgings uncontrolled.

there are always regrets, afterwards, fingers pointing at the sky.

is it a case of global warming?

or perhaps, of hearts turning indifferent and cold?

this is the story of our fields of dreams, and of people who believe in them

a case of, too late the hero.