Here, in this room,
In this place of weeping,
There is a whisper,
A yawn of dying dreams.

He never asked for mansions,
Or for grand banqueting halls,
He never asked for servants,
Or for a legion of suited waiters.

His Mother knew him,
His Child knew him,
His Maker knew him,
We don’t know him.

The sunlight fears to enter here,
Even the very air holds its breath,
The stench of another night purrs,
And no King will curl upon this pillow.

In a bed of infernal inhumanity,
Where cruelty corrodes into a life,
A lonely man is nightly crucified here,
The hymn of compassion snuffed out.

In the city the wealth runs rampant,
Suited power brokers spit and point,
A rat infested suite is not for them,
Their champagne and wines will flow on.

Remember,
The grave equals us all in the end,
That room fits King and Poor alike,
Fear the memory of what you did.

Give your ear to the voiceless,
Give your hand to the homeless,
Give your heart to the forgotten,
Give your life a moment to pause.