We stand in puddles and soggy shoes.

They live diseased on concrete in waste.

We shiver in rain and wind a few hours.

They die frozen to transport trucks’ sides.

Our stomachs grumble until restaurant food.

Their runts’ skulls are shattered on stone.

Our friends and families don’t stand beside us.

Theirs are butchered before their eyes.


What activists endure isn’t brave or a sacrifice.

It’s a tiny match, measured against hell.

We can burn a little for them.