He walks the house with furrowed brow,
Inspecting pipes that groan somehow,
The window sighs, the sockets spark,
Each failing thing ignites the dark.
He counts his coins, his pension thin,
A ledger of what might have been,
The years ahead, a fragile thread,
He fears the hunger yet unfed.
His children’s paths—oh, tangled, wild—
What snares may wait for each dear child?
He sees the shadows close behind,
The demons that disturb his mind.
His wife, a storm of tears and flame,
He pleads with reason, she with blame.
Two languages that clash and fray,
Their hearts still tethered, day by day.
And yet, beyond his restless fight,
A softer voice breaks through the night:
“My child, your fears are but the dust,
Have faith in Me, in Me you trust.”
He nods, he prays, he tries to stand,
Yet fear still takes him by the hand.
But deep inside he holds the thread:
The light will come, the dark will ebb.
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