every hair on your head is counted
you are worth hundreds of sparrows
the tree you planted has [bad word] fecund
with kamikaze hummingbirds

wings of hundreds of beats per second
of people whose wings are just a blur
afraid our eyes might [bad word] 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