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It looks like Canaan.

Not so much Moses’s land of milk and honey, although the color’s right.  No, it’s more like Sting’s fields of gold.

It looks like a lush land, one made of the very fire of the sun itself, dressed in golden fringe and a choker studded with diamonds.

Who knew drought could be so beautiful?

A hundred years on, and it is the time prophecy: not of angry barred from the promised land for striking a rock, not of the bards of rock and roll, but of the Pastor of Prufrock, of the hollow men caught between war’s, and wars’, proverbial rock and hard place.

This is drought, a golden land forty degrees too warm and many more too dry, and this is the way the world ends.






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