Here in our village square children ran through the dust that was only summer then. Under the windows there were tables, glasses, hands on shoulders. Nobody asked how deep the water lay. Then the sky stayed open too long. Maybe we'll understand when the nights turn cool again. The earth began to crack and kept the cracks. The grass turned yellow, the wells grew deeper, the conversations quieter here in our village square. We started counting the buckets. Then the loaves. Then each other. Maybe we'll understand when the nights turn cool again. The heat took our tears away. It lay on the rooftops, on the church, on our skin. With a door that stayed closed. With a shadow over a well. With men who told us who the thirst belonged to. Maybe we'll understand when the nights turn cool again. Children once played in the village square. Now only the sun still rises every morning over our empty village square. And somewhere beneath the dry earth there must still be laughter lying there. Understanding lives on the far side of the moon. The moon never turned its back on us. Before our footsteps too disappear from the village square. And we no longer write songs about it.
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