The days are made beautiful by your glorious appearance, but when the sun rises over the clouds, the warmth fades away, and for men, faces become caricatures of disgust in the mirror.

In the morning, even before the Sun rises, the sky and the pathways are filled with mist. The trail to the stream and forest is covered, and the road is treacherous, for snakes sleep in your wake. Dew settles on the leaves of trees, weighing down the branches. The smell of burning grass and wet clay stays around the vegetation. The greens turn red with dust, frown, and grow brown. When hawks circle the sky, they search for stray rats and chickens.

The sun rises afterward, hot and boiling, drying and dehydrating everything and taking the moisture from the trees. The thirst for water becomes urgent. Streams and rivulets quench the body’s and soul’s thirst. Refreshing, fruits become a delight.

Harmattan brings both joy and love. The evening breeze carries cool airs, offering a warm distraction from the heat of the day. The dry mud cracks as men walk upon it. The leaves crackle and fall in circles, stripping proud trees and shrubs bare. The streams become shallower. Children play in them, tossing water at each other in pure ecstasy.

When night falls upon men,
The mists return to hide the way.
The moon shines softly,
Over the village and hamlet.
The shadows of trees are concealed
Within the thick fog that surrounds.
And when men gather in the inns,
To recount the work of the day,
With words come from cracked lips
And voices high-pitched like Nightingales,
The gentle evening brings good tidings to them.