The empty spilling glass stands high,
Teasing the parched peasants.
Their tears water the arid ground they lie upon,
Etching on them their painful plight.

At home in the soaking cities,
Built on scraps left unused
By faces that don constant smiles
Because never had they need not to.

Those poor souls they pity as they wait
For a cause that ushers them to their safety
Of cushions and robes, that deprives them
Of time to give a much needed pauise

They fill up their glasses from the 
sparkling pool made from those sun-drenched eyes.
Uncaring of its price, They selfishly retreat
To sip as they subside.