I am a hired servant,

working hard again today.

Cleaning floors, doing laundry,

serving meals upon the tray.

But tragedy found me suddenly—

the cart I pulled got caught in the curtain’s seam,

a little tear, just a few centimeters,

yet it shattered my fragile dream.

I bowed my head, apologized,

admitted fault with honest eyes.

Careless, yes, I must confess—

but the verdict struck me nonetheless.

Three months’ wage, taken away,

for a curtain torn in such a way.

Oh, it’s over now, I sigh…

my worth was measured, and found too shy.

I know it’s fine, those curtains grand,

expensive fabric, carefully planned.

But still it hurts to realize:

I’m worth less than cloth in human eyes.

In this “wonderful world” I breathe,

a life devalued, torn beneath.

A piece of fabric holds more weight,

than my existence, than my fate.

Of course, I know things hold their price,

objects can be rare, precise.

But here I stand, a beating soul,

a living being, yet less than whole.

Still tomorrow I’ll endure,

save my pennies, nothing more.

Three months living on bread crust ends,

yet I’ll return, and work again.

In this “wonderful world” I stay,

breathing still, though cast away.

A fragile thread of life I weave,

worth less than fabric, yet I believe.