Layers of Sound
The ones in rooms of grand seats,
wait for a day to stop and retreats,
their voices are murmurs that flee,
when they see those who are free.
Free to smile, free to cry,
though those who are free,
do not understand why,
or what do they have to flee,
or when do they want to flee.
Society, views, and traditions,
for that is another addition,
of people and voices that mutter.
They pretend to be butterflies that flutter,
and do things that make us shutter,
because they are the ones that utter the lies,
because they do not trust,
yet, they are not unjust or just.
Then, there are those
who live on the streets
and have no sheets
on which they can lie
or anything that they can buy,
they murmur the lowest,
not because they are afraid.
They are tired,
tired of this world's gray,
that only they can see,
and so they have nothing to say,
about the limits that trap
us, of what we can be.
Their eyes are clearest,
yet their voices are the smallest,
for no one wants to
listen to what is true,
and no one will ever
listen to the poorest of the rags
because they have tags,
that mark them
in this unequal world.
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