A stolen morsel, more precious than gold,
Hidden in shadows, quiet and bold.
Not for the greedy, nor for the proud,
But for the hungry, lost in the crowd.
In the marketplace, where wares are sold,
A bite is worth more than jewels untold.
For a child who cries in the heat of the night,
A single piece of bread could restore their light.

A stolen shirt, to keep out the cold,
Worn and threadbare, but still worth more than gold.
It shields the bones, the spirit, the soul,
More than riches, more than any toll.
In the bitter winds, where the breath turns to frost,
What is the price of warmth when all seems lost?
It is not the fabric or the cut of the seam,
But the shield from the cold that allows us to dream.

For hunger has no coin to its name,
It strikes without mercy, without shame.
It’s a thief in the dark, a shadow that grows,
A gnawing emptiness that nobody knows.
What price can be placed on a stomach that yearns,
Or the aching body that endlessly churns?
Not a coin, not a bill, nor a vault filled with wealth,
Can buy back the strength that comes from good health.

There is no price to hunger, no fee,
No purse or vault can set one free.
It is the thread that binds us, the silent cry,
Of every person who dares to survive.
For every meal that goes unserved,
A dream is lost, a hope unnerved.
What is the value of a stomach that's empty,
When the world’s riches are nothing but plenty?

There is no price to shelter, to rest,
No gold can build a home that’s blessed.
It’s the walls that echo,...