The loud trumpeter's call. A voice ringing clear and proud. Singing out farther than the rest, overshadowing the wind. Nothing heard above it's beauty, its triumph. So deafening that you never hear the ugly cries, the dirty ones, the ones half strangled with suffering.
You are untainted.
Just the ring of beauty and health.
What need does it have? Why do you need to hear it?
Because you want to. Prosperity needs no help, it isn't drowning. You can't stand the pain of the ugly ones, you don't want dirt on your hands. But the shrillest of screeches, the foulest of words, the quietest voices are the most important. They are the ones who need to be heard, to have attention paid to them. Who speaks for those who cannot? Where is their trumpet?
They call out from the dark, but the dark is frightening and unknown. They reach out from the mud, but mud is dirty and unclean. They sing out from behind the bars of cells. But they are the foul ones, undeserving of help. So you listen to the trumpet, its pleasant and easy, clean and joyous. You can forget that those other ones exist.
But someone must speak for those whose cries frighten you away. There must be someone to stand up from the trumpets and bring forth the music you wish not to hear. They must play the loudest, be more than the trumpets. They have to be the brave ones. The ones who willing to make changes.
You are untainted.
Just the ring of beauty and health.
What need does it have? Why do you need to hear it?
Because you want to. Prosperity needs no help, it isn't drowning. You can't stand the pain of the ugly ones, you don't want dirt on your hands. But the shrillest of screeches, the foulest of words, the quietest voices are the most important. They are the ones who need to be heard, to have attention paid to them. Who speaks for those who cannot? Where is their trumpet?
They call out from the dark, but the dark is frightening and unknown. They reach out from the mud, but mud is dirty and unclean. They sing out from behind the bars of cells. But they are the foul ones, undeserving of help. So you listen to the trumpet, its pleasant and easy, clean and joyous. You can forget that those other ones exist.
But someone must speak for those whose cries frighten you away. There must be someone to stand up from the trumpets and bring forth the music you wish not to hear. They must play the loudest, be more than the trumpets. They have to be the brave ones. The ones who willing to make changes.
Post a Comment
Be the first to comment on this article!