The Wicker Basket
There is nothing more grevious than an abandoned cradle,
Now the paper house on the matted grass,
Has fewer mouths to feed alas,
The mother of the late child crumples at last,
The paper house is growing unstable.
And the vacated cradle does not help her,
It only creaks and jeers,
Through intervals of the sound of tears,
And confirms the family’s greatest fears,
That all they are is paper.