Only a small grave, black earth and a wooden cross,
Beside a lonely semi-permanent house, another loss,
Get eaten by weather, few years no trace,
The last of a great lineage, what a disgrace.
A few steps stops and turns; a quick glance,
one last time,
On her pale cheeks two parallel streams,
ain’t a crime,
To mourn who you loved; she cries,
that was her mom,
Not long ago buried her dad,
now just her and granny in the farm.
Next home two more fresh graves,
only three months between them,
Just a handful of people; no clergy,
either tired or gave in to shame,
Villagers of this proud lake community,
seen enough of this menace,
Fish no longer protein and income source but a curse,
the widow has to feed her kids,
the fisherman is a widower, has conjugal needs.
A fish for sex, is it barter trade?