Here, in the wild countryside
As the sun melts everything in its sight,
The five feet tall grass becomes yellow,
The landlady leaves pitchers of ice cold lemonade on the coffee tables,
Others leave their half finished, sticky, glasses on the floor or beside the bed or on the porch.
The cicadas sing a merry tune,
Unafraid of the heat.
Food becomes unbearable, undigestable.
Feet seek the comfort of tiled cold floors, and ice cream shops sprinkled everywhere as they would be in a city.
What they do find instead is a lake, sheltered by weeping willows.
To the lake, the feet go then.
All plans for the day abandoned under the dictatorship of the sun.
It is in the lake that their souls find solace,
And finally, they realise that the red wrath cannot touch them there,
Only the tiny red fish,
Zigzagging through the weeds.

Sweat drips down…