Every hair on your head is counted
You are worth hundreds of sparrows
The tree you planted has become fecund

With kamikaze humming birds

Wings of hundreds of beats per second

Of people whose wings are just a blur
Afraid our eyes might become impaled
By their sharp and tiny beaks


I'm so sorry, my spirit's rarely in my body
It wanders through the dry country

Looking for a good place to rest
Your head upon my chest
And I can feel the pillow of your breast


You are worth hundreds of sparrows