Time has changed.
Time, when mothers made solids…
Friend, don’t you remember?
Those we made into round balls,
brown, white colour differed.
Yet, pride of our dear culture.
Those were days.
Fathers came with tuber from farms,
Harvest of laborious time of grow.
This, we peeled to pound,
wrapped in leaves, such great a meal.
Those, our favourite, our delight.
I’m still amazed.
Time had gone and we have grown
Thus left the gun-time of childhood.
Then, we ran the hills for sport
bath in streams to clean
And, fed grain to birds for food.
Here we are.
With no morsel but grains in mouth
Chock-a-block. Yes, white grains in mouth.
This-is, what money will afford
Ask, what can we do?
…but take food for birds.