The clay field lies,

The rain falls down,

The ground breathes in,

The people rise:


They’re clay, but people all the same

They long for life, for love and fame

And envy those that are endowed

With what they dreamt of in the ground.


A farm lies in the dead of night,

No motion but a candle’s light

When, suddenly, clay hands reach out

And rock the front door’s iron lock,


And clay fists break the window panes

Clay shapes climb in, with outstretched hands

To take from people what they crave

But haven’t found


So that instead

They put them down

Into the ground:

An equal grave.

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