We are like urns,
Beautifully textured urns
Pretty from outside
But Empty from inside
We are like those empty urns
That lie in one corner of the room
Waiting to be filled
But nobody comes to
Fill us
There is no Hope at all
We still lie there,
Waiting
Lest anyone should pass by
And take us away, seeing us empty,
In order to wash and fill us with cool water
The thought alone explodes bubbles of hope
Inside us
But nobody comes
It rains outside
And we lie there, still dry
Seeing other cheap pots being washed
And provided with cool, fresh water
But nobody seems to take
The least notice of us
It strikes us deeply
But we are too dry
To cry
We cry tearlessly
There is no hope at all.
