A dying child puffs his smokes at me
why be a baby? Why be a dying man?
I’m constantly torn between race and culture, religion and future
Lets all sink and die, believe and rise.
For I lost a baby, yet she speaks of an angry woman, a praying one
Another day another death
Tell me of a lord, maybe I would worship
Tell me of sun, maybe I will lookup
For I am vulnerable to a love I never saw, never will meet
A baby perhaps a blue
A steady, perhaps a moon
We all are butterflies
For we live in each Other’s bellies
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