Onion

In humble skins of papery brown,
An onion lies, its layers deep,
A quiet sphere that rounds the town,
Where tears and sweet aromas seep.

When sliced, it weeps a crystal rain,
Each drop a memory of earth,
Its pungent breath can soothe the pain
Or spark a laugh, a sudden mirth.

In stews it melts to golden sweet,
In salads adds a sharp, bright bite,
A neighbour to the chef’s discreet
Heat, where flavours meld just right.

So raise a fork, let aromas rise,
Honour the bulb that brings us wise—
From field to fork, its silent call
Adds depth to life, enriches all.