Every hair on your head is counted
You are worth hundreds of sparrows
The tree you planted has become fecund
With a kamekaze of humming birds

Wings of hundreds of beats per second
By 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