It is the time of the year
When the grasses are burned
And the fumes dance happily
Up to meet the blue skies
The hawks and kites circle
The fire hunting stray rodents
Men beat the bush about
Minding the farm crops nearby
The smell of the fume
Spreads about the place
Pushing the acrid smoke up
Forming a wonderous sight
The nights creep in quietly
Even from the far hamlets
One can see the smoke rise
As the grass burn, slowly
