Southern land of the sun.
Fires consumes, takes over all,
These forsaken fields where rain does not fall.
Hot, dry, empty skies.
The harsh sting makes the earth cry, but without the tears.
Light beams down, treating us all like ants under the looking glass.
Gleams to scorch our skin and burn us down.
It takes our homes, and chases us out.
The ground recedes, wells drying up.
Branches break and leaves fall, then fade way.
Trees dying off.
Water flees, escaping the persecution of the sun.
Leaving the millions,
All who are firmly rooted here; They cannot run.
Rain over California, a fleeting thing,
And a somewhat of a dream.
Rain over California, reduced to a ticket now,
And the weakened lands are playing lottery.
Rain over California, it is so far gone.
Rain over California, maybe just once more before too long.