I have a voice!
Maybe it's small and timid,
and can be brushed away
by a small breeze
but it's still here
whistling in the wind
toppling through the branches
swimming in the waves.
This voice of mine...
I use it often:
when I'm drinking tea;
talking about Lenin;
Lying in my room.
But like a powerful instrument
my voice can turn winter into spring
and water out suffering and pain.
This voice of mine is soft.
Its as fragile as a feather -
but it can fight an army
as it makes its way towards me.
Not saying my voice is like a weapon
or a destructive force!
But rather a worker sowing in a field.
I have a voice
And it's often silenced,
but even silence can build up into noise.
