My Child

Sometimes at night, I don't get sleep.

I often hear the sound of wailing trees.

Sometimes I think how my child will fare.

With the wars and the bombs and the knives and the thieves.

Sometimes on the road, I can barely see.

Just feel a flash of people devouring me.

Sometimes I think how my child will fare.

With the words and the eyes – power trips on the street.

Sometimes in life, I can't make peace.

With suffering and noise and horns and sleaze.

Sometimes I think how my child will fare.

In this ball of bricks and bats and beasts.