The Voice Poem by Joel O-H
The Voice
While I waste on vain altars
Caring not my Master's scars
Comfort I find in gutters
Seeing not I lost my stars
Where on Earth would take my kind
Where would overlook my filth
On which alter would I stand
And I'd not be chased by guilt
Worthy not on all Earth's plain
All tell me to expect troubles
Tears buy me not any gain
Let me go back to my rubbles
But still that voice keeps calling
Rise up and quit your falling
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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8/2/2025 8:38:19 PM # 1.0.0
