Fate or them

Silence keeps the brood alive,
At least far from slit throats,
When they huddle to a corner -
And lay as almost dead, quiet.
Inexistence is a virtue, almost,
As they shudder at fate,
The unknown master that holds,
The strings of their lives -
Hostage to its own whim.
They ponder then in the moment,
Just before the judgment,
Of the hands in the cage,
Is it Fate or the hand,
That shall forsake them soon...
The question that we don't ask,
But one that we surely must,
While our brood is still alive,
If fate indeed is to blame...
Or are the hands that hold -
The mantle of our lives,
The true slayers of our kin.

- Anubhav