Petrichor

To think that raindrops are the sight of dreams, For countries parched forever in a drought, Scarce rainfalls are an awe to blissful beams, Of people used to kicking dust about. Though every pleasure brings a slice of pain, the barren land all cracked with furrows wide. Yet in the midst of drought, seeds still remain, hope sprouts from where despair did once reside. But when the clouds relent, the heavens weep, And earth drinks deep of long-awaited rain, Each drop a promise, each puddle a keep, Reviving fields, refreshing every vein. For us that scent of petrichor is sweet, But for the famished, a heavenly sent treat