The dark calligraphy of your veins,
Scrawled beneath the translucent eggshell of your wrist,
Testament to vulnerability, blazon of life.
As if your delicate arm could measure the aeons,
That gasp between us like the water in your cupped hands,
Drench the cloudy soils that we call our lands,
What a waste, these rivers that run within us,
Rather they should glisten amongst the green of true flesh,
Last freedom of this ground we saved from the sea.
Follow me then into the black earth, absorbed, absolved,
Deep inside the memories of our fathers,
Cradled amongst the arms of roots that knew the first. |