Mercy came knocking once, a pale wanderer draped in dawn, with weary eyes and gentle hands, carrying no sword, only the burden of understanding. But the wicked knew not her face. Their hearts were citadels of stone, where compassion died unnamed and every wound became a weapon. They barred the gates. For mercy is a stranger in the hearts of the wicked. She walks their halls unseen, a ghost among shadows, whispering of forgiveness to ears that worship vengeance. They drink from poisoned wells and call bitterness wisdom. They sharpen grief into blades and wear cruelty like a crown. Where mercy offers a bridge, they build a wall. Where mercy kneels, they strike. And so she leaves quietly, taking her light with her, while darkness settles deeper into chambers already cold. The wicked do not fear mercy, they fear what mercy reveals: that beneath their iron masks, beneath their kingdoms of pride, beneath the ruins they call strength, there lives a trembling truth they dare not face. For merc...
The dry season came without mercy,
Cracking the earth, whitening the sky.
Rivers forgot their own names,
And even the clouds passed by.
No water left to drink in the jars,
No green on the tired land.
Plants bowed down into dust,
Grass vanished from the animals’ hands.
Cattle walked with hollow eyes,
Hooves tapping prayers in the sand.
People counted days by hunger,
Not by clocks or future plans.
That’s how life turns dry as well,
When money stops flowing through.
Dreams wither like thirsty leaves,
Hope fades to a brittle hue.
A dry financial season steals quietly—
It takes the voice, the rest, the pride.
You look full from the outside,
But inside, everything has died.
Just like land waits for the rain,
So a weary soul still stays.
Knowing drought is not forever,
Even in its longest days.
For every dry and cruel season
Ends when rain remembers the ground.
And life, once parched and broken,
Will drink again when the mercy is found.
© 2025 Gloria Penelope
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