The Cry

We live in a fruitless world,

Where the trees refuse to grow.

Dry fields you cannot see,

Where seeds in vain are thrown.

Blood flows deep into the ground,

Leaving stains no one can clean.

Words come from our mouths like stones,

But they’re tossed back to the sea.

Broken bodies must stand alone,

Hands pushed back when out to reach.

My poor voice is lost around the world,

There is no one left to teach.

Natalie Gorna