Powder is the grass, burnt powder,
Mingled now with the dust from which it sprung;
Dead are the lilies in the veld-pans;
The veld-flowers have vanished.

Naked is the veld, scorched and naked,
Charred is its coat, once brave and green;
Naked to the sun's lash it quivers—
A victim defenceless.

Silent are the streams, sad and silent;
Drought has sucked their shining souls away;
The stars have slipped from their fingers,
The moon has escaped them.

Dead are the blossoms and the berries,
The bright birds have departed,
Like poor-whites, they have fluttered to the cities,
And there they starve songless.

Dead are the friendly sheep and cattle:
Bleached bones whiten in the sun;
No soft lowing comes from the valleys,
No faint bleat from the hills.

Lonely is the veld, stark and lonely,
On its scarred breast no living thing is seen,
Save only a hawk that hovers,
Like doom o'er its shadow.

Drought—the dark vulture—hovers,
Desolation—his shadow—swings below,
Over the long-drawn anguish
And despair of the veld.