When I was water,
you convinced me I was cold
that I could transform
into something warmer
so you poured me, to a pot
of your selfish desires
and boiled me.
I screamed in pain,
but you never came to my aid.

Instead of drying and dying,
I evaporated, turned into steam
and escaped, now that I've become
a rainy cloud, you come often
many times, climbing mountains
with hurting feets. just to pray
for my moist hand,
over your dried landscapes.

© Lundi Ncuthu