A dying child will cough his smoke at me
a baby? a dying man?
I’m constantly torn between race and culture, religion and future
Let’s all sink and die, believe and rise.
For I lost my baby, yet I speak of an angry woman, a praying one
Another day another death
Tell me of a lord, maybe I would worship
Tell me of the sun, maybe I will lookup
For I am vulnerable to a love I never saw, never will meet
A baby perhaps a blue
Steady, perhaps a moon
butterflies
We live in each other’s bellies