In that vacant room

On that bed of thorn
Lies seed corn
Waiting for a child
Who will be praised
For wetting the bed
And up the stalks
Will build and climb

It won’t be me, too heavy
The sky; I can’t bear the weight
Though the older I get, the easier
I cry; packing less nitrogen
Still my tears may do
If the child can’t find
That vacant room

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