The sky has darkened before its time:
a swarm of locusts,
not a thunder-storm.

To protect my tender crops
I build foolish fires,
burning everything handy.
The smoke drives some away,
kills some. The rest descend.
Hosts of them camp in my head.
Frenzied, I run about,
stamping the earth with bare heels.
I shout, clapping bits of tin
to distract the devouring.

When there is a famine within
we shan't go completely hungry:
we'll heap all the dead words
and cook them. It is said
they are delicious with rice and lentils.