Don’t Complain to People Your Wound

A verse of poetry dazzled me
With its magnificence

Since it was penned,
My inner core
Has been reclining

It has become my motto
And emboldened me to append

Twenty verses with their
Equivalence of wisdom

Do not complain to people
A wound that is your own

A wound pains not, but
The one who is injured

Complaining is belittling, and
Character compromising

None of the mortals
Is without malady

Torments torrent, and
Illnesses are in abundance

Bloody conspicuous, albeit
The concealment of sufferers

If you complain to those who are fortunate,
You fume, and they turn inanimate

If you complain to those
Who rejoice at your suffering

You add an injury to your
Wound—namely sorrowing

Has empathy—ever freed a nation?
Or condolences—compensated
For a falling flag?

He—who mourns misfortune,
Stifles their own momentum

There’s no vision to fortune
If it doesn’t see persistence

Many a time, I was disenchanted
By whom my trust I granted

Spurred by their indecencies
Their company, I’ve deserted

Many a time, to whom I loved,
I became a bridge

They walked on my ribs
And many a time—they stumbled

Recklessly, stepping on my heart
Which was—their embracing residence

Hence, my loyalty is not for
A lover—who has no virtues

Despair is not my countenance
And I am not broken by sadness

My wound is unyielding
By the sting of fire, it is healing

Drink your tears, and swallow
Sweetness—for their bitterness

Candles are conquered by flame
While they’re standing—softly smiling

Restrain—your wild worries
And saddle their backs into a steed

And rise—as a sworded knight,
If blades start crossing

Justice on Earth—
From its inception—
Is spurious—and
There is no justice

Equality on Earth,
No equality, no conscience

Goodness is an amiable,
kind, worried lamb

And Evil is a malicious,
Voracious, cunning wolf

All knives are flying
Toward the sheep

Reassuring the wolf—that all
Are cohesively connected
And the herd—is being herded

Be cunning, and be a thief
Without hands

You’ll find plenty of pleasure
Crowding under your control

Money and might
Are two gold statues

To them, in all tongues,
Pray all nations

And the mighty are
Tyrant pharaohs

And the masses,
Under the thrones
Are servants

Woe, you are burning in pain
Your complaint is my complaint

Tears streamed not,
Down the cheeks,
Blood did stream

To none but God we resort,
Sheltered under His protection

To Him, we cling and plead
Imploring His benefaction

Be a philosopher,
And here, you will see
All mortals
Are fighting for dust—
And to dust—they are destined
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