By JH Sayyar
O cruel Fate, why dost thou frown so cold
Upon the meek who toil with weary breath?
Their dreams lie tattered, never bought nor sold,
Their hopes lie low beneath the weight of death.
While Fortune crowns the proud with grace,
The humble starve beneath her lavish glare.
They seek the light, yet shadows they embrace,
And wear despair as if it were their heir.
Yet still they rise, though every dawn be grim,
And sip from sorrow's cup with silent pride.
Their songs are hushed, their candlelight dim,
But still they walk with dignity as guide.
O Fate, be just—let mercy touch thy thread,
Bless the poor with peace before they're dead.
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