It hits me below the belt,
A song I thought light hearted, only sad.
I never knew the meaning at the time.
Now I see it was quite out of time.
Crying before you’re hurt. I always did so.

I think, why do they talk of publications;
Of agents, magazines, markets and fees?
I ask about it, but it hurts to hear
That all the spells we weave are currency.

I will be heard. I want my voices heard.
But when you speak of six percent, or eight,
I see no words, only the paper stacks,
Price tags and tills, remaindered books that wait.

And voices that were loud upon the hill
Pressed flat between the pages, creaking, shrill,
Telling the dusty shelves their sentences.

I cried today because my baby died.
I cried eleven years before her birth,
Because I sought for truth, and saw a dream,
And was afraid, and told it in a song.

June 1982