Crescendo of the gloomy day like the wail of whispers,
Bare feet stain the facade of the cemented ground;
Morning sun in orange wear, smearing light upon Earth,
I, in the fetus position, longing to catch each falling ray.
Trees wave their arms to the warm breeze that sails by,
Greeting with joy and kindness to the young crickets;
I, in the fetus position, sniffing the odor of the withering leaves.
Invisible souls sway above ground, ravenous of foods,
Yearning to quench their thirst with soda or juices,
I, in the fetus position, begging for a drip of joy.
