Harmatan, the cold dry wind That blows my soul’s ridges, The dry leaves of the withered tree of your love Falls upon the lonely cracked earth of our garden We are covered in brown dust; the color of desolation, The hay of forgetfulness enshrouds my mind, The debris of memories Ploughing through dry weeds of love, My heart is now a mere shadow of its being Where, through this misery, is our vegetation? Raindrops, teardrops Make the soil of my soul fertile Where the seeds of loneliness You have...