FOUR CORNERS

FOUR CORNERS

Four corners I have

In one are buried my ancestors.

 

In the next

There sleeps a cooking pot.

 

Over the third

thatched roof has a hole through

that rain and sun peep,

There is also a plastic flower,

brought from fair

ages ago, now

Sullied with soot.

 

And in the  darkest

There is a cot, lousy

Worm-infested,

And when when we sit

It creaks.

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