Poetry

Parched

My mother is life
My father is dust
My flesh and my bones
Are made of earth’s crust

I’m fragile and weak
A piece of parched soil
That turns back into sand
At the end of life’s toil

I crack from the heat
I crumble to nought
Where once there grew grass
There now is but … what?

If only rain came
Playing its fife…
My father is dust
My mother is life

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