My roar splits the heavens,
Shatters silence like glass.
The mountain before me crumbles—
White grains cascade.
I devour life whole,
Drain rivers with a tilt,
My prey, once defiant,
Now lies conquered and still.
Nature trembles at my voice,
Each echo shakes the earth—
Until Mother's voice cuts through:
“Don't burp at the table, child!”
My fearsome mountain?
Just rice on porcelain.
Those mighty hills?
Fruit stacked too high.
That endless river?
Mother's water jug.
But oh, the satisfaction
Of a full belly's peace.
