after taking a long pause,
having spent its warmth,
on the wicked and the infamous.
The wind wiped away their dwelling
as they prayed at the church.
And abodes of those didn’t flutter,
who spent the night gambling.
The children of the honest do perish,
starving for stale bread and water.
The tables of those who cut throats are laden
with cakes and plums they do not cherish.
Bent by the pain, the pure one often ponders
Should I detour my path some?
But the righteous soul once again kneels down in prayer-
Waiting for the sun to do its wonders.