Bohehet-Echoes Of The Quena

romantic melodic slow quena, Andean folk, acoustic guitar, intimate atmosphere #Romantic #Acoustic #Intimate [Verse 1] The calendar says it is the tenth of August. The rain gauge in the yard is bone dry. I walk the fence line near the old road. The grass is brittle and breaks under my boots. The local paper says the reservoir is failing fast. But the mayor keeps his lawn green every evening. I watch the dust settle on your empty chair. The earth is thirsty and so am I. [Verse 2] I play the quena when the sun goes down. The hollow wood sounds like a bird seeking water. It is a slow tune I learned in October. Back when the river was wide and moving fast. Now the rocks are showing their grey faces. The trout have all died in the shallow pools. I blow a long note across the parched field. Waiting for the wind to turn from the south. [Verse 3] The water board met in the brick hall Tuesday. They talked about quotas and the cost of grain. But they did not mention the small farmers’ debt. Or how the cattle are thinning by the day. They wear clean shirts and drink from glass bottles. While we pray for a heavy grey sky to arrive. It is hard to stay kind in a drought. When every living thing is fighting for a drop. [Verse 4] I think of your hands in the cool soil. Planting the seeds before you went to the city. You said you would return when the harvest came. But there is nothing to reap in this heat. The mail comes late because the trucks overheat. I read your words until the ink starts fading. You are the only cool place in my mind. A deep well that never seems to run low. [Verse 5] Last night the lightning flashed over the ridge. A tease of thunder shook the kitchen window. I stood on the porch with my shirt off. Hoping to feel the first heavy splash of rain. But the clouds moved on toward the next county. Leaving us with the smell of wet dirt. The quena sits cold on the wooden table. A lonely pipe waiting for a human breath. [Verse 6] If the rain does not come by Sunday morning. I will pack my tools and head toward you. There is no sense guarding a graveyard of corn. Or listening to the lies of the water board. The earth knows when it has been truly abandoned. But I will not leave you waiting in the heat. I will carry the flute and the dry letters. And walk until I find where the water starts.