baskets made of reed
don’t float like they used to,
and no matter how tall that grass may be,
you can’t hide the truth
from a baby born to ask questions.
lay low, Miriam.
lay low and wonder
what you’ve done
and what was fair.
and how long you can hold that secret in,
’cause no matter how many of us just edged by
the swords of Pharaoh,
you cannot prolong fate:
we’ll meet ours in time,
but were we really any better off
living a filthy little life
of wandering around that sweltering desert,
or climbing up Mount Sinai
just to realize how filthy
that little life really was?
sweet God, the river painted red
with our own blood
long before you commanded it
and long before you cleaned it up,
and we’ve been floatin’ down it,
floatin’ down it and hopin’ someone’d pick us up,
and all the while, our basket was fillin’ full,
the water just pouring in through the reed,
so I hope you can swim, little one,
’cause No One’s gonna part these waters,
but if you’re lucky,
they might dry up in time.

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