OurVoices

The man with orange-gleaming hair and a mouth that shouts, but cannot hear the whisper of another's pain— he counts his coins; the world's his gain. He steps upon the trembling small, ignores their cry, the human call; compassion flutters, dies unseen— call him little, call him mean. And every heart he's never touched is just a number, oh not much; in towers tall, where greed revolves, and plans are made that nothing solves. Yet somewhere still the world persists, and kindness grows in quiet fists; and though he rages, loud, absurd— our voices rise, and must be heard.