Empty Hands Poem by Basma Sayeed

I gave like rivers — wild and wide,
With open palms and nothing to hide.
A thousand suns I lit for them,
Yet stood in shadows once again.

I stitched their wounds with threads of gold,
Held breaking hearts, though mine grew cold.
I poured my peace into their war,
But when I bled — they asked for more.

I hoped they'd see the cracks in me,
Return, perhaps, some empathy.
But silence answered every plea,
And love felt more like injury.

Now I walk with quieter grace,
No longer part of that old race.
Still kind — but not to earn a name,
Still warm — but never quite the same.

~Mishto