The Silence

What makes the rustle of leaves, 
So cynic in the middle of nowhere ? 
What makes the roar of the waters, 
Tremble our little boat back to shore? 
What makes the howl of wolves, 
Fill these city streets with dire? 
What makes the rattling of windows, 
Turn the rooms into dreams of poor? 
What makes the hissing of whispers, 
Poison these truths and free air? 
It is this silence we witness, 
In the minds of men with power. 
It is this silence, 
We, in times of voice, are ready to wear. 
It is this silence, 
But nothing else.

-Aroon Che