The parched earth cracked, a barren mass.
A thirsty crow, with feathers dull,
His throat like fire, his spirit null.
He searched in vain, from field to wood,
For water drops, a precious good.
He dipped his beak in dusty streams,
But found no solace, only dreams.
Then, on a journey, weary, slow,
He saw a pitcher, white as snow.
A glimmer of hope, a heart's delight,
But the water lay, just out of sight.
His beak too short, he tried in vain,
To reach the drops, and ease his pain.
But clever crow, he thought and planned,
A way to drink, with nimble hand.
He gathered pebbles, one by one,
And dropped them in, until the sun
Had shifted, and the water rose,
To quench his thirst, and end his woes.
With grateful heart, he drank his fill,
And learned a lesson, with a thrill.
That even when the world seems dry,
With wit and hope, we can reach the sky.