Drought

The dead yellow grass,
The dry, cracked ground.
The wishing for water,
All year round.

The banks of the river,
Now non existent.
The sickening sight,
Of the new aged drought.

Water now so precious,
From the North to the South.
Instead of water so luscious,
There's dust in the mouth.

The soft trickling sound,
Of the once flooding streams, gone.
For the dessert's growing,
Over running the town.

What will happen?
What shall we do?
When the water's all dried up,
And there's nothing we can do.