This was inspired by the water shortages here in my province. An awfully gloomy thought which I realized later.
His throat is scratchy,
and his fists are clenched.
His eyes are watery,
but they hold a shameful pretence.
"It's not your fault." They're mumbling.
Of course it isn't!
But if his world is crumbling,
He regards them, nonplussed
He wants to laugh - but nothing seems like a jest.
The hurt is too strong simmering deep in his chest,
like the ache of prolonged thirst which he had the unfortunate privilege
of witnessing first-hand.
But it's not his fault, he recalls,
that he cries at these hours.
Because without any rain.
There can be no flowers.
