Forgive me, Lord, my lips have slipped,
I seek a place where secrets drift.
H and S with their sudden flair,
New iPads, laptops shining there.
They speak of wealth while claiming less,
While my own path is tangled stress.
Their reports are done, applause they claim,
My proposal still waits, burning with shame.
Is this the fruit of flattery’s hand?
Or am I lost in thoughts unplanned?
Forgive me, Lord, for my restless mind,
Dark suspicions I cannot bind.
Then E speaks: “Be patient, sir,
Research in English rarely stirs
A chance for aid, a chance for grant.”
But why such words? What did I chant?
I never complained of funds denied,
Yet whispers of envy stir inside.
Did H and S extend their grace,
While I still linger in this place?
Forgive me, Lord, I think untrue,
These doubts I carry, I cast to You.
.jpg)
