Why do the stars stay where they are, In that empty and boundless black sea?
Can't the constellations rearrange, Or are the contours just meant to be?
Storms precipitate at an incessant rate, With a hard haze too heavy to cease.
No voice could outmatch the thunderclaps, The clouds roll on by ignoring the pleas.
Spellbound to the sights of cityscapes, But not often see behind the disguise.
Inside are the struggles and misfortunes, Of a sodden past that never dries.
There are collections of record books, Written by victors with so-called ideals.
Contradictories from the left and right, Impassive reason enshrouded what was real.
How do crowds of people walk these days, Brushing off the life of their neighbor?
A hand seldom stretches out for unity, There's no such thing as a savior.