Of those who are blessed with hair gleaming silver,
Or those presented with eyes as gold as the sun,
Few have graced themselves with power,
Few survived their own wrath, fewer made it to the end of the run.

Of those who were granted the gift of luck,
And those who earned unparalleled beauty,
Only some had learnt to be the kindness that shelters one,
Seldom did they explore beyond the horizons, those people I pity.

Of those who were basked in eternal joy
Few knew what meant by angelic gloom,
Fewer still knew their strayed hearts melted to oblivion,
For them, in my soul, I spare some room.

I don't wish luck, neither do I yearn for joy
For the rose that plays at the end of spring, stays the silent touchstone on my mind,
With my sturdy heart of iron, and the song of steel in my soul,
My head is a glorious battleship, unbowed and steady, so I find.

-Aritree

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