Fortune’s Chains and Modesty’s Crown
Is Fortune a harlot, or is she a Queen?
The world has placed a crown unseen—
Heavy with sorrow, weighted with sin,
A burden she carries, though never to win.
They whisper she sells her flesh for gold,
Melted and formed in shackles cold,
Link by link at ankle and wrist,
A prisoner bound, yet they insist.
While Modesty waits for a diamond’s gleam,
To be named as Virtue in a gilded dream.
But who recalls Fortune’s maiden name?
As Poverty, she bore Tears in pain.
She wore her hunger, like a petticoat tight,
A mother unseen in the pale moonlight.
Modesty, ungrateful, turned her face,
Burying her mother in silent disgrace.
She stole the crown, yet left the chains,
A legacy lost in unspoken pains.
Culture cares not for Poverty’s cries,
Nor Modesty’s birth, nor Fortune’s sighs.
They praise the bride when wedded bright,
But scorn the mother in secret night.
With Fool’s gold they make their show,
Yet despise them both in truth below.
One, the mother of a harlot named—
The other, the bastard child defamed.
In hidden halls, in whispered breath,
Fortune and Virtue are scorned till death.

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