Little Giant
You will stomp, And the stillness will stop, The connect will cease, And all the whispers will be in peace. The louder you cry, The echos will increasingly fly, And the clouds will enter, And you will know no better. For what will you call, When you know not what is destined to fall? Is it this loudness you make? Or perhaps this quietness you take? You stomp and shout, And no one knows what you are yelling about. You feel alone, You felt the madness the quietness had grown.