I read about an African father carrying his starving daughter to a refugee camp. She died in his arms less than a mile before they arrived.
lyrics
Bloated on the empty retching in the neck, I see the preying mantis kneeling down as bone and flesh. Leaning on the landscape, moving is the trick. I am the walking stick.
Dragging what loving brings, sagging in her skin. All that I had to give made her this prison. Leaning on the landscape, moving is the trick. I am the walking stick.
Stepping on bodies, no reason no rhyme. Forward is backward, I bury my child. Leaning on the landscape, moving is the trick. I am the walking stick.
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