It’s the heat of the dust of the African day
Riverbeds are crusted into clay
From the Kalahari to the cape of storms
We know the drought from the day we’re born

Its the dust in your eyes, its the dust on your skin
And it dances the dance of the heat on the horizon
And the tension is tight as a skin on the bowl of the sky
A rhythm’s beginning to roll as the temperature rises

There’s a pause in the pulse you can feel the earth take a breath
And summon its strength in a hope it hardly has left
In a flashing of light you can see the thunderclouds roll
And it calls to the depths of the well that you hide in your soul

And the sweetest smell of all the old men say
Is as the first drops fall from the grey
And they join the solemn children at their game
Dance in the shuffle-circle-dance in the warm rain. (4)