You sit,
Fingers folded into fist,
Elbow driven into the table,
Fist driven into chin.

A state,
Of troubled waves
Foaming out its own shame.

With an empty belly,
You worry;
What will I eat tomorrow?

With a dry throat,
You worry;
Shall there be wine for the morrow?

With aching shoulders,
You worry;
Will these burdens ever ease?

With weary eyes,
You worry;
Will rest ever bring this peace?

With a heavy heart,
You worry;
Will love ever find its way?

With fading hope,
You worry;
Will dawn ever break the day?

With trembling hands,
You worry;
Will my grip ever hold on...