Sitting on a bed of thorny roses,

The pitied soul looks at the window,

And thinks what to think.

Myriad thoughts occupy him

While he shares none.

He laughs at what wasn’t meant for him:

Sometimes snubbed and sometimes used,

He knows his day will come one day.

He flocks to where his mind takes him

And the thorn pricks him,

He isn’t called when he leaves—

Silently.

He saw the sky roaring and the leaves quivering,

And the incessant drops seeming like dew—

Petty and trifling.

When the sun came up,

No one could see the dew,

Since it had already dried.

The vicious tentacles of competition

Are too strong to be broken:

Sometimes so strong that it does not remain

Competition at all.

And sometimes, a bit of his past

Knocks him at his heart’s door—

And that is when he strengthens himself.