So many nameless dots in the data that somebody, somewhere, reads in a report. So many nameless dots in the data each marking the collapse of someone's world.
I sit with my souvenirs sprawled across the floor. Not the postcards and magnets, bought from some store. But the ones I collected from mountains and sea shores.
The city dwellers will never know, The anguish of a farmer, increasing with each passing day. When the effort they put in for months, Is either parched or washed away.
Oh, what are the odds? Of your work, that you carved, sculpted and perfected, being mere pillars that people, years later, just walk past.