The boiling sun sends searing rays
To scorch the arid earth
Dust devils dance in pantomime
For everything they're worth
A mother, bent and haggard
Beats her fists upon the ground
Today, as every other day
No reward is found.
The child strapped tightly to her back
Is much too weak to cry
The mother knows, instinctively
Today her child will die.
She'll feed it to this self-same earth
To give it some protection
But she knows in her breaking heart
There'll be no resurrection.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
