no movement of air

there is no place to which we might retreat
when light has turned all shadow into dust
and moisture does not penetrate the crust
of sullen earth made bitter by defeat
the tread of millions who admit they're beat
all hope and all ambition are a bust
we're left to do only those things we must
and all is wilted in the noonday heat
false cool above the shadows most invite
when we are drier than the sunlit stone
hope does not flourish in a hidden park
there will be no relief at fall of night
the world is dessicate as ancient bone
and rest does not come easy in the dark