Thrust upon me are the arms of many, Whom train day and night, To carry or be carried upon, Was the mother's plight.

Guarding a ticket of numbers picked, you cross your fingers and dream of What If. A sliver of hope to be very rich, will you be the next randomly picked?

I bend but I never break. I can allow you to see, but I can also take it away. Sometimes I bounce, sometimes I cease to exist.

I am shaped by thunder, but I do not get cold. People often Make me.

Upon a field of mirrored lands, Two nations wait at mind’s commands. The throne is lost when rulers fall, Yet blood is never shed at all.