The Scent of Wormwood

When the whip of the wind strikes the earth’s flank, Dark clouds rush forward, dragging low and dank. Like a female camel moaning for her calf, The heavy clouds, their big nipple isn't half. The autumn sky weeps, then suddenly smiles, The dark clouds drip in a rhythmic style. Washing the dust from the steppe’s face, Shaking the heads of wormwood in its embrace. The poor wormwood stood there, unable to sway, Shoulders heavy with dust, locked in dismay. When the cool breeze brushed its face in delight, Its fragrance burst forth, wild and bright. Oh, how marvelous, this land so beloved, Its cherished scent holds all life discovered. If not for wormwood, so enduring and true, Every other plant would have burned through.