Prompt for April 12: Four Lines about The Drought

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[prompt from http://daily-writing.blogspot.com/]

The river beds had turned to sand: small, course, frustratingly dry sand. I heard the women crying in response to the innocent questions asked by the children hanging on their skirts. I only felt boiling hot rage gurgle from within me, my own demonic spring that could never quench me.

What did that pipsqueak do to have the gods abandon us so?

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