Volcano shatters Spring this year,
No flights patrol the dusty sky.
Crops wither on the vine and die.
The Summer's lost; in Autumn die
the harvest and the hope the year
will end with blue and cloud-free sky.
The Winter's greyer than the sky.
An ashy snow falls; people die.
We light bright fires to end the year.
Beneath the year-end sky we die.