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The sun

our great dictator of life and death

brings forth light

too stunning in summer.

Waves of heat,

in turn, continuous defeat

seemingly never ending,

our sombre intermissions

come too few.

Every scorched morning

is embraced by a great many.

Our land’s signature repertoire

welcomed like an old friend

each blinding day.

Yet come the day’s first hours,

we varied few

find the season dull.

We do not receive warmth

but heat.

Nor do we see the true colours of our world.

The rays too indifferent,

all glow

with the same glistening shade.

And I cannot fathom the validity of seasons here.

Heat and humidity

and unchanging light

too enduring,

our remaining seasons

of soft winds

and comforting coolness and colour,

too short

and dearly missed.

I can only marginally bear

when the coming months

are of great appeal.

And I ought to move away some day,

to truthful four seasons.

For a long summer here

is no match

for our delicate souls.

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