The Silence Between Their Words

By Noam Raucher

The room hums loud with voices raised,
each man a pillar, unafraid
to claim his hurt, to stake his ground,
to shout his grief, to make it sound.

Their words crash hard like breaking waves,
their passions bright, their tempers brave.
They clamor strong for what they need,
for dignity, for space to breathe.

Yet when the wind begins to turn,
when cries rise up from those who burn
the ones unseen, the ones in pain,
whose voices tremble, thin as rain

the room goes still, the shoulders square,
the chins lift high, but none will dare
to wield the weight of all their speech
for those whose pleas can’t find the breach.

For here, to speak is to compete,
to claim one’s seat, to not retreat.
But to defend what’s not one’s own?
That fight they leave to stand alone.

And so, the ones who spoke so bold
fall silent when the tale unfolds
not for themselves, but for the weak,
the ones who cannot rise to speak.

The irony is thick as stone,
a fortress built around the throne
of self, of pride, of fear disguised
as if their strength is neutralized.

Yet power’s weight is not in sound,
not in the way they shake the ground,
but in the will to stand and say:
“I won’t let silence win today.”