You are the blood of me, the harvest of my dreams.
- Sade
Before love's lingual inauguration in their lives,
Two hands, hardly able to cradle the cheek of doting parents,
Secretly reached for each other and have since never let go.
When hearts are being excavated of all romantic illusions
And the soteriology of love meant a man hanging on a tree
The two hands press hard as a tower that refuses to fall
When weighty waiting has frayed the nerves of many men
And the closing of the circle is but a quantum leap
The hands (w)ring each other of impatience in a soul tie
When wrists are slit in a tepid desperation for release
Bloodied bathwater now a covenant with and libation to God
The fingers intertwined against the anguish of the unrequited
When Eros stumbles and fumbles, an amorous haemorrhage
And the hearts of human arteries don't give second chances
Undeterred by amputation, those arms reach for stumps
When mother tongues are loosed from lips by great distances
The trespass of time zones disrupts love's circadian rhythm
The two diasporic arms, in solidarity, point to the mother land
When ducking and weaving the reaper's stainless-steel scythe
And melting under a connection that reaves of head and life
Two bereaved hands reach across the veil closing the great divide
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