Dusty footprints in the sand,
Everyday reminders stretching across the land
Winding down a narrow path for miles
The people walking in single file.
They carry empty bottles and jugs on their backs,
This daily migration one of their lives’ bitter facts.
They arrive and silently line up, mud streaked faces drawn,
Waiting for the drizzle from the faucet to get them through this drought.

Back at home,
A woman sits alone,
With her children drawing pictures
In the dirt.
Between her hands is a small sack of rice,
But to feed her children, there will be a price;
She knows now what she must do,
As she, for the last time, cooks her family their food.

The next day while fetching water, the weakness came,
And she fell to the ground…
Remains of another who lost the hunger game.