What could be done? What should be done?
Of silently crying children behind thin walls in the night, who no one sees.
No one pauses to listen. To the man sitting on the stairs, who breathes heavy in his sleep.
For him the hunger is real, yet he never asks, not once, not ever, for a coin.
Unlike the scammers on the streets, he doesn't pace the curb-side with a sign.
He lies on the stairs, goes to the town office every morning, asks the woman at the desk, softly,
Is there no job for me today?
Or quietly crying children behind thin walls, too frightened to look away from behind their hands.
The ones who never speak up, who hide behind long-sleeves in summer,
and have three lies for every bruise if anyone darts a furtive glance
The ones a little too pale, a little too thin, a little too quiet and a little too quick to answer
In their soft, broken voices, eyes always on the floor.
What could be done? What should be done?
None of these answers come with ease.
But with each sunrise, their pain grows.
What could we do? What should we do?
Maybe, just maybe it's time to listen.
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