Clay

Houses built by clay, yet strong — held like mud.

Ideas of despair and stress skew away

as the water runs off the head.

We’re just huts?

Maybe.

But huts that breathe.

One's not just from palm leaves, thatched with grass,

but ones that carry joy between the cracks.

Ones that hold intermittent feelings beneath the roof,

that stand tall even when harsh storms forget to end.

We are made of soil and clay 

But aren’t we all?

We are made of soil, clay, and patience,

held tight like the parts of a hut.

I hope the world remembers us,

even when walls fall.

And after hardship comes ease 

I pray for the day my people bloom with happiness,

like a hibiscus tree.