Pour this water over my head, wait not for a sound. Ask not about a child's grief, for I was glory bound. I was born a dangerous woman, I was born too soon. I left my home in Tennessee, and I let my candles burn. The sunlight fell upon your face like a hailstorm hits the ground. The streets were rife with beggar's children and I still recall their howls. Like old gray dogs without homes, blood crusted on their coats, with desperate eyes they held open palms and I tried hard not to look. We walked the streets until just past the midnight, when the shaking would finally subside. We built our home in an alleyway behind a butcher shop.
The sun rose high above the cathedral just across the square. The bells rang out to shattered ears. I won't forget their sounds.