In the curve of her waist,
she held her child,
and balanced on her head
a pot of water.
Some song rustic and familiar
escaped from the tauntness of her lips.
Nectar, this water,
which will cook her bread.
and then emerge from the motherly chest
and nourish her child.
Until again the next morn,
she will wake up and walk,
Across the tardy concrete wall,
beyond the tarred strip of a spent road.
Into the small nook,
where a tap would spurt forth,
liquid gold.
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