Inside her little box of an apartment
Lies the elderly woman,
While I tell her about the rain
That is wetting the roads
Outside. Confined to her bed,
She cannot even move
To the window, without help,
To look at the few drops
Falling from the sky.
The plants she has in pots
Cannot feel the rain, either.
All they can get
Is the “filtered water”
Whenever the sullen maid
Remembers them.
The woman is able
To have a roof over her head…
But some simple joys,
Like savouring the raindrops
Which wet that roof,
Are beyond her,
Small deprivations
Can sometimes be big ones.

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