I live somewhere within, and here, I find myself washed up onto a desert shore.
I climb onto these tired feet and pray, somewhere, I can find an earthen floor.
This land is barren, fruitless and devoid of life — I cannot help but to wish there were more.
Somewhere in this hopeless heart, I hope I can find a way to make more of these bare stores.

I take these little seeds I have; all the life I have to share.
I carry them in pockets of hope inside; throughout this journey, I have carried them with care.
I have many common strains — quite average, in truth — nothing quite truly rare.
I quietly hope they will come to fruition in time, though this is more than which I could hope to dare.

I scrape at the earth to find a bit of damp with these roughened fingers of mine.
The water in this damp brings a hint of life — I take it as a hopeful sign.
Bent over on my knees, I work at the earth, feeling the strain upon my spine.
As I bury this seed, I hope that in time, the direness of this time will decline.

Days pass and not a sprout — the hope that had barely come to life had died.
Hunger feasts at the innards within and flesh begins to waste away inside.
I barely have the salt for my tears, for the many I could have cried.
I do not blame the little seed; for all the life that it had, I am sure it tried.