842. The thunder breaks upon the weeping land,

SONNET 842
By JH Sayyar
The thunder breaks upon the weeping land,
And floods devour the toil of peasant hands.
Fields drown in grief, no harvest left to stand,
While kings lie soft in dreams of far-off sands
The winds lament through roofs of broken clay,
Yet palace walls know not the storm’s despair.
The poor must brave the night without a way,
Silken beds with Cutes still cradle royal care.
Oh, justice sleeps beneath the high rising tide,
While crowns shine through every darkened hour
The people's cries, like rivers, swell and glide—
Unheard beneath the seat of mean gilded power

Ah! Let not the rain be ruin’s only do trace
Let wrath one day awake in heaven’s place.