How can I tell the world
while it busies itself into the day?
The world won’t listen,
there are no delicate ears here.
The world won’t stop,
the ears are made of steel here.
There is no love here
only ears which hear a voice,
a voice of steel.
In the tumult I stand
and shield my poor delicate ears from the steel voices,
metal hands and iron words
in their world of metal tears,
tears which pour only for their lost selves.
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