the pain in the world is great
suffering… misery… torture, even
and here I am making a masterpiece
why even bother?
what good will a painting do
while a child is dying?
how can a poem be worth writing
while books are being burned?
who wants to compose music
while the martyrs are screaming?
my ink is blood, sweat, and tears
my palette holds the colors of fire and water
my notes are the heart-cry of tortured souls
because I must make something beautiful from the pain in the world