My bloody Luck, seemed like a fist full of sand.
Empty as ever, when I opened my hand.
My palm is marked with a thousand cuts,
But not engraved with the line of luck.
I walked through thorns,
With blood oozing from my feet.
Never heard an encore or applaud for my deeds.
It was just routine to pick my self and move,
My luck seemed to live like a mourning veuve.
One such day with nothing to look ahead,
I kept walking on the stones, with a weight on my head.
I saw a wretched creature, fallen to the ground.
He was not dead, I could hear a grunting sound.
He looked at me with a sigh and a smile,
“Lucky man, you have legs to walk the mile.”
He was crippled I saw, with no feet at all,
Bloody feet stuck to my torso, my luck seemed tall.
“We are soldiers”, he said, “Stuck with our struggles to survive,
You are lucky to have legs, and I am lucky to be alive.”