- I wrote this poem on behalf of those everywhere who feel unheard by the powerful

 

A Voice in the Desert

 

A voice in the desert is echoing itself,

The train had passed away,

Leaving pain on the shelf.

With resonance, I shout,

I avoid delving,

In those common feelings.

 

A voice in the desert returns what I say to me,

No answer, no conversation,

Except my voice echoing itself back to me.

A pain, that bounces back to me.

That I’m unable to contain inside me,

No river, no ocean is there,

To take it away from me.

 

I go round, in, a round circle,

With haste, I move left and right,

Hoping this pain may voluntarily… from me drop,

Or that my shouting… would then stop,

But all I hear is my voice,

Echoing and echoing itself to me.

 

How can a voice be a voice?

Without reaching someone…

Without touching someone…

How can a voice be a voice?

Without being heard.