Every hair on your head is counted
You are worth hundreds of sparrows
A tree implanted has become fecund
With karma causing harm and birth
Of 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 hair upon
my chest And I can feel the pillow of your breast
You are worth
hundreds of sparrows
