Some wonder why misfortune falls on those
Whom Fate so high upon her wheel did raise,
“Am I next?” the refrain, unsaid, so goes.
“Can I enjoy my hard-earned blessèd days?”
How cruel, that man, so kind, began to cough,
How sad, that mother’s head began to pain –
It’s as if Fortune above doth scoff
At plans that humans have but sorely lain.
And what of him, whom Fortune not once thought
Worthy to ride upon her wheel? She waxes
Never for him, his body often wrought
With pain until at last his frame collapses.
No sweet and pleasant wine has passed his lips,
No Meditations past, were read by him
To soothe his mind, unloved, as darkness grips
Tighter—dare he ponder what might have been?
Those mournful lives which fall from great abundance
And men who have but lived through dismal days,
When pained, surrender all their independence
And come to Hippocratic doors where they,
If our pursuit still holds a grain of good,
Are met with equal love, and hope, and care;
Fore’er against capricious luck we’ve stood,
The final shield opposed to black despair.