I’ve heard them all,
the names, the numbers,
that compose my identity;
that tell me who I am.
never enough, and always too much;
you shouldn’t have.
But this identity, of silk and sackcloth,
dust and ashes,
and the sorrow of a thousand years:
perhaps again, we’ve all been wrong:
it’s written on those bleeding palms;
and those palms,
they tell a different story.