In the brush at high noon, the bramble weeps,
Its sorrow is for man by the Santa Ana riverside,
Where the devil, human greed stirs the waters deep,
As the wind currents swiftly begin their ride.
The moon silently stares while the high winds lift,
And the stars chime dirges as poignant dust drifts,
The burning sun beckons the land, a farewell to say,
A river of destruction whistles contempt this way.
In high-density air swirl and twirl, a firey deluge to embrace,
Each whirl, a dwelling, a memory, a fearful trace.
Now, the time has come to bid a teary goodbye,
As the devil fiercely tosses the night wind so high.
Rushing and rustling through the dry brush,
Scorching love and property, trees turn to ash,
Santa Ana winds, like hurricanes at the threshold,
Again lays bare the thirsty earth as of old.
Who disturbs my dwelling place with the elements,
Daring man to fight the devil to a confessed judgment,
Stretching hot air across the celestial plane,
After engraving stories on the earth's vast terrain.
Land and fire, life and loss, an eternal dance,
Woven in mystic warp and weft, entrancing our glance.
As the citizens move forth, the currents pull,
Their spirits burn while nature’s whispers lull.
From the Santa Ana River to the sky, the current swift,
The moon points obscured fingers to a wild cosmic drift.
Yet, in leaving, denizens' spirits remain united after the rift,
In the dance of departure and return, a celestial lift.
Heavy hearts cyclical, marked by fate, bid farewell,
Temperature, written in the rhythm of nature’s spell.
In search of the land, every year in disguise hurricane-like,
The windy legend, Santa Ana, across the earth, hitchhikes.
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