Last piece of loaf
Born in the field of burning scrap,
collecting bottles and plastic cup,
happiness found in the food left with wrap.
Yearning to be free from this hapless trap.
I want to feel how to be alive,
where living is not something to strive,
with delish food you can take a dive,
dream and life learned to abide.
Father's hand aged like an old oak tree,
pain and weary in the eyes you can see.
Mother bears chores in yielding knee,
but I never heard a squawking plea.
They made this life worth to live,
even if hope starts to cleave.
Ashamed of the little things they can give
every night and day you can hear them grieve.
A loaf on the table to silent crying hunger,
they put the call of their belly under.
Father said, " tomorrow our table will be longer",
filled with every provender you could wonder.
This life is mayhap a curse of the fate
or our family took the unfortunate bait,
we perhaps never had a sating plate.
But with the household's love I built my faith.
Bread on table is all they can lay,
gratitude and praise they taught us to say.
No matter what you have learn to pray,
not everyone has something to eat in a day.
When last piece of loaf is about to break,
they will dare not to touch nor take,
taking back seat for children's sake,
even if screeching ache will keep them wake.