As his commiserate hands hold the cup of tea
Towards his sister's lips to drink
An equally commiserate flower bowed down its petals
'Til one fell detached each day
This has long been the form of hourglass of life and death.
But, the boy won't allow it
So every commiserate day of breathing given
His commiserate hands hold the cup of water
Towards the pot's lips to drink
An equally commiserate flower slowly chins up
And grows its petals healthily attached each day
This has long been the form of hourglass of hope and love
And not-giving-up.
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