A pot is on the stove in every household;

Water, beans, salt and emotions-

Everything boiling in a quiet chaos.

A mother's hand stirs the mixture every now and then,

Before the meals, after the clothes.

It's always summer in the kitchen,

Even when the only brothers of the house

are dieing in a cold war,

Even if the air inside stinks of sweat and suppressed rebellion.

The water keeps boiling,

Flooding the pot into a graveyard

of beans and emotions.

Unshed blood trickles down brows,

cheeks and the salty vessel.

The clouds gather outside-

Is it going to flood there too?