The cooking pot sits on the stove,
Empty.
Greyish potatoes produce a rotting stench.
The cottage is quiet
Broken only by a cough.
A wheeze.
The room is stuffy,
Filled with disease.
There was a time when
The house was filled with music and laughter.
A time when our stomachs were
Full.
And so were our hearts.
But then the blight came,
And never again
Were we the same.
We are not starving.
The hunger had passed.
All we feel is emptiness.
We are hollow.
Empty.
Just like the cooking pot.
