Her eyes are a festival of warm tears;
her ears are a melody of cold fears,
for the aria she once heard has turned black—
black as a tire that has hit a flat.
The world is a void of endless solitude,
for the world she knew is quietude.
Vibrations rise through her feet;
now, she won't accept defeat,
for if she is the mighty dragon,
she will wave the flag and
sing her battle song:
I can hear,
I can hear
but in a different way.
I can speak,
I can speak
but only with my hands.
Deny me or don't;
tie me with rope;
I certainly won't
give up my hope
to be seen as someone
who can hear
I'm a writer.