The sun had been scotching: burning, merciless, ceaseless.

What was a plain of fertile soil crowned with lush green blades of wavering grass had turn into barren aureate dirt, shamefully impotent.

That solitary tree, once fruit bearing, the land's humble only figure of hope, had baked into a black burnt wrinkled distorted mass. A witch tree.

Once did it rain, some many years ago, a great mighty pour onto that parched land, to breath it life. It flooded the land, drown its soil, and everything died.

Nobody prays for the land now, for nobody prays for rain.