every hair on your head is counted you are worth hundreds of sparrows the tree you planted has become fecund with kamikaze hummingbirds 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 head upon my chest and I can feel the pillow of your breast you are worth hundreds of sparrows
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