By JH Sayyar
Fate weaves her threads but we cannot see,
Alas! A silent spinner at the loom of time
She shapes our days with ghostly constancy,
In patterns vast, unreadable and sublime.
Yet Chance, a jester in a wind-tossed cloak,
With dice in hand and laughter in his eye,
Delights to crack the lines that Fate once spoke,
And toss our dreams like feathers to the sky.
Then Luck, that fickle queen of sudden turns,
Bestows her kiss—or leaves us in despair.
She fans the flame or lets the cold wind burn,
Unmoved by hope, unmoved by earnest prayer
Three rulers reign where mortal hearts do roam
Ah! Yet none can claim the soul as all their own.
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