To wake up to the rumbling
Of a hungry stomach,
Waking up with a starved mind-
Without books to read
Without games to play
Nor music to listen to;

But a heartache from a broken heart
These unfulfilled hopes piling-
Before me higher than the nimbocumulus-
With every passing day and each of my pulse beat;
Rita too, broken hearted is in a refugee camp
Where only the broken hearts stay.
Had Rita's loved lovers been there
Kissing away every one of her teardrops
Easing the cloud of rolling in her mind.

Yet, still, my heart may be there
Your heart being there as well,
Where tears are food for breakfast-
Tea, bread, cakes, fried eggs come later-
Waking up to the aches of broken heart
With no one to care for me or you
No one to love neither you nor me nor Rita
When in the morning tears flow into our mouths
Breakfasting from what is already part of us,
Each one's tears flowing into each one of our mouths.