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