Excellence Award in the 'Word Zone 2016' competition

The heat is like a hot iron against the land,
The sun staring down upon the dusty plains.
No more people to lend a hand,
No more feed, no more rains.

Farmers waiting desperately,
Watching the clear skies by day.
Praying for the rumbling rain clouds,
But still having to feed out the hay.

The animals are thin, boney skeletons,
Walking wearily across the plain.
Looking hard for sun-free shelter,
Whilst dealing with the pain of no rain.

Small communities are shrinking,
No more hope left to stand.
People leaving forever,
Giving up on the forsaken land.