EACH IN TURN

All my heart is with those who are sad,
Swallowing their tears with their own bread.
Like red hot nails pierce me their sad sighs
Though they're not nigh my sad, downcast eyes.

I extend my weak hand for their needs,
but my hand is short, and weak my deeds.
I can't compensate what fate has marred
as l am by weakness fully barred.

We are throngs of men, each one in turn
sheds his tears for what we can't return.
Time goes fast and we can't do a thing,
save those tears when that sad toll will ring.

Why don't we extend the hand of help,
dry the tears of those who need that step?
Our eyes will weep and need that hand,
which all creatures wait for to expand.

BY JOSEPH ZENIEH
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