The dry spell lifted,
it is raining on parched soils
all over the Garden City.

Drops, silver eggs crashing
against the glass windows,
dance on the reservoirs,
chase away the Sumatra haze,
bring down to earth the construction dust,
dilute the Equatorial glare.

But after too many days
of fast, of thirst, of angst,
like a hungry ghost,
the soil is unable to swallow.