The Chained Hand

 I asked the good god, “Will the world change?”

For evil grows bold, cold, and strange.

Each sunrise brings another fall,

Another tear, another call.

And then I saw—a hand so pale,

Wrapped in chains, a silent tale.

Not bound in anger, not in hate,

But caught within the loops of fate.

Circles forged by hands unseen,

Of centuries lost and might-have-beens.

Of choices made and truths denied,

Of power masked in holy pride.

The hand was hers, I knew it then,

The good god trapped by hearts of men.

Still reaching out through time and dust,

With faith, with sorrow, with sacred trust.

She does not break what she can mend,

She waits for hearts that choose to bend.

And though she’s bound, her light remains,

A silent force within the chains.

By Gulsha Begum