The mortar receives several beatings from
The pestle, scrambling to and fro for balance.
An affront uninvited, assaulting its very life,
Straddling the hope of peace as it beckons on darkness.
It weeps from the hurt of many bruises, bent over
Through the hall of shame, stripped of honor and
Left naked in a devilish cold, until the next round of
Beating suffice, a gruesome cyclic ritual.
By the door of the Inn, in the coolest of the shades
Lie the earthen pot bearing drink. She sit unmoved
And safe from the clapping fist, perched comfortably on
A watered earth, cooling the thirst of men with the content of its bowels.
She glanced over the block and finds the mortar
Scrambling around again. She sighed cruelly in a
Mocking gesture, and waved a sly to the mortar:
What a life you’ve got!