Don’t wanna be a real person —
Tried that —

Don’t wanna sell my wares
In this market anymore –

Rolling in from the crags
And hills of Ephraim

Spreading songs like pestilence
Among the children of Bayt ʻUr

The council advised against any
Further involvement

But every loaf of bread has been
Baked through with violent indifference,
And I seethe for the broken
The missing, the hived

Where the songs go, there goes
Hope of escape among
The trapped, the bruised, the swollen

Don’t wanna close my eyes anymore

Don’t wanna shade myself from

The truth