Hunger

Survive the winter, my child.

While hearts ache with cold spears,

The weather's heavenly high.

Her rosy lips turned blue,

Hasty syrups poured into

A mother's taunt.

She had no clue,

She wraps herself in a soft lullaby;

In her barely fifteen,

frosty ears.

become for me-

the hailstorm most wild.