What is this I perceive?
My cranky nostrils seem to crack;
My squashy lips seem now to heave,
Is Harmattan back?
What is it with the parching dust?
The cracking of fluxed fallen leaves?
The swelling sound of wind burst?
The arid fog inhaled in its weaves?
Skins turn scorched!
Palms in its hoarse pattern!
No facade of surge!
It’s assuredly Harmattan!