The Question of Survival

Why do I deserve to live when millions have died?  Prays didn't work, even though they cried.  While millions starve, their lives go to waste. As if their journey were destined in haste,  By hunger, disease, and war undone, Or beneath nature’s calamity, their battles won? Is my life worth more than theirs? Or chance alone spares me from despairs? Am I just a fleeting breath, Shielded from their plight and death? If mercy exists, why does it not extend, To the broken lives that fate can’t mend? Or is natural selection’s gentle hand at work, A blind nature’s shifting thoughts continue to lurk. No divine decree, no cosmic grace, Defines the paths we’re left to face. Just spots of a fragile geographical line, Between their suffering and what’s called mine. Why do I live while millions are doomed to die? If I'm fed while millions hunger fill the sky? If mercy exists, why is it so rare? Why does it favor, and why doesn’t it share? Is life but chaos, an illusion of fate, Where justice arrives never, or far too late?