Ill-tempered droughts strip lands of foliage sheath.
Its barren womb still yields a wilted crust
that liberates, from layers underneath,
a swell of ruffled soil and choking dust.

Fluorescent flares and roars of forking light,
that carve the palms of charcoal-tainted skies,
make flickers of abated hope ignite
chimeras in a mortal dweller’s eyes, 

yet flaking shores remain unquenched as clouds
somnambulantly stray and then proceed.
An arbitrary whim of flighty crowds
of blooming billows indisposed to bleed.

Thus hexed, the fabled glory and allure 
of Kutch now languishes without a cure.