EMPTY POTES
Beneath the sun, a brutal glare,
The land it cracks, a sight so bare.
The once-kind stream, a memory's trace,
Leaving parched earth, a lonely space.
The well, it coughs, a sputter weak,
Each precious drop is a treasure to seek.
The caws of crows, a mournful sound,
As life itself struggles to be found.
A mother's touch, so gentle, kind,
But weary eyes, a troubled mind.
For tiny lips, so cracked and dry,
She pleads for rain, a tear in her eye.
The farmer's back, bent with despair,
His once green fields, a barren share.
His withering crops, a silent plea,
For life-giving rain, to set them free.
But hope remains, a flickering ember,
That clouds will gather, skies remember.
To quench the thirst, of land and soul,
And make life whole, once more to behold.
For even in the harshest clime,
Compassion flows, transcending time.
With helping hands, and spirits strong,
We'll weather this storm, and carry on.
-WILLIAMSJI MAVELI