Those giving their opinions,
From their high and lofty gilded cages.
Sitting on lakes in secure tall buildings,
Where the winter breezes blow...
On those crawling homeless,
On pavements below.
Are the last to be sipping with quips,
From behind insulated glass...
With insecurities they drown to numb,
By a doing done as if their thoughts...
To anyone matters.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem