The Congealed Dew

Though I move in the multitude,
0f men, women tall, thin, fat, small,
Yet find no breast or a shoulder,
To rest upon my head to shed tears,
Drops of molten pangs and sorrows,
Which make my heart too loathsome,
That always cries to slacken its load,
Borne since I was born to abode,
In the world where each rose,
Is surrounded by thorns,
And each pointed thorn bears,
The dew of congealed dry blood.

poem by Muhammad Shanazar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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