By JH Sayyar
Cruel Fate, thou tyrant walks in shifting guise,
Thou steal the bloom ere it can meet the sun,
And twist the path where hopeful spirits run,
With cold silent hand and unrelenting eyes
No plea can sway thee, nor do prayers unmake
The iron writ thou carve in the stars above
What joy we build, what fragile dream we love,
Thou take back, and leave us naught but ache.
Yet in thy magic lash, a paradox remains:
Thy harsh blows often birth the deepest song.
Though thou break the weak with unseen chains,
The strong endure—and rise where they belong.
O cruel Fate, though none thy course may bend,
We do write defiance still, until our soul’s end.
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