Shirima

Shirima, weathered, eyes like sunbaked clay,

Through life's assaults, held firm what some throw away.

When troubles struck, a tempest's sudden roar,

He'd counter, steady, "These don't linger long."

For trials, like storms, unleash a furious might,

But wane and vanish in the fading light.

He'd point to skies where clouds, once dark and vast,

Give way to dawn, a tranquil beauty cast.

"Your attacks are short," his voice a steady drum,

"Mere passing squalls, when blessings truly come."

He'd speak of rain that quenches parched terrain,

Of sun that warms, of life-sustaining grain.

"A moment's sting, a fleeting sorrow's tear,

But kindness lingers, year after grateful year."

Shirima's wisdom, etched in every line,

A testament to hope, a faith that's thine.

So let life's storms descend and skies grow dark,

Remember Shirima's words, a guiding spark.

For though the blows may strike with sudden might,

The sun of blessing burns with constant light.