You scorn the thread I’ve finely spun,
Wove days and nights, till work was done;
The silken gifts I gave to thee
Lie crumpled by the cedar tree.
You drank the dew my hands had found
In morning’s cup, yet left no sound
Of thanks, no glance to greet the sun—
The labor fell on everyone.
The hearth I built, with careful care,
You leave to ashes, cold and bare.
I shaped the wind, I stilled the sea,
But all was dust beneath your knee.
Ungrateful heart! So wild and still,
You take the harvest for your fill.
Yet never once, with softened eye,
Did you behold the hands that try.
I fade like shadows on the shore,
A ghost of all you could adore.
But even winds that whisper low
Are felt by those who wish to know.
Written by Demah Nasser.
Cover photo by Suzi Kim.