A Daughter of Mother Earth

I was born a daughter of mother earth.
In a city, crowded by a million people;
I cried as I took my first breath of the stained and impure air in the hospital;
in the arms of my parents I lay sleeping.

As I clutched the dry, red mud and
tasted the dry red earth in my mouth,
far from the cleanest,
I wonder what I was thinking.
It tasted like Mud, they'd said.
Mud.
It tasted heavenly.

I drank my first drop of the rain.
It made me thirsty for a thousand years.

The city whined to me,
her fatigue I could feel.
Lodged in the corner of the heaving bus, I stole a moment of peace as a hundred, sweat-drenched bodies poked fun at the indolent sun.

My feet crunched dirt,
my red eyes watered as I prepared a meal
and the sky looked dry as the desert.
I was praying for a little rain.

I was 15 and a half when I left the place I'd known for the last 15 and a half years;
scared to the last fiber of my being;
happy thro every single one.

The mud across the 7 seas was particularly the same.
I tasted the rain again.
Like a toddler, I babbled.
I smiled and did my homework like a good girl.

I was born to mother earth.
She had me in her stomach as long as my mother did.
Even longer.