chrisk.art.blog

The boy threw his books, mindless where they fell.
He brusqued into the kitchen
to the black earthenware pot sitting on the hearth
He slid its lid halfway, and emptiness greeted him.
His intestines bellowed sinisterly as if they had conspired with the pot.
He gaped at the pot, his face stern,
And the pot too stared at him, not blinking.
He bowed out, as he is outdone by the former in a staring spree.

He went and rested his butts under the veranda,
And his gut bemoaned again!
The bleached walls looked him piteously, yet helpless.
Whilst the roof, of reeds had their eaves sag.
A wind from no direction crept in, blew his tattered T-shirt up
And his back shown: many shades of patches done severely severally
On his only priced shorts.

“When can we have a morsel for Ourself, by Ourself?
How I will bwaarp, after meals!
Can I walk fully clothed, in up and down without shades some day?
Fate, is this my reality
Or time, you say you will tell?
Or hope, you say I must endure more!

As I deject sleep, in the dead of nights
Poring thro' every sheet and every page,
As mother shoulder the hoe,
scathed by the heartless sun,
In this lone ranging journey
Things will fall in place by work or
by providence. Sure, I know
the wait will be worth the while.
The son of a peasant too will have his barns overflow”.

By Kombat Chris.