When I see you with your beloved,
I swallow a laugh in my weary chest.
Amidst the long harvesting days,
You labor in sweat, worn and pressed.
What has she done to you, my dear?
O’ Noor, your glow is stripped away.
The voice that once bloomed like spring,
Now wilts in silence, pale and frayed.
You were the song, the wind, the rain,
Now bound in dust, in calloused hands.
Once unchained, wild, and free—
Now lost in a life you never planned.
