Standing on the untilled land,
The wind sliding past my hairless pate,
I proffer water with trembling hands
And light the lamp of a withered fate.
They said your soul will wail and wander
On the breath and the beat of the beloved lives,
Till an exorcist coldly tears us asunder
Summoning hate sharper than knives.
For daybreaks ten and nightfalls then,
I close my eyes to searing moans,
Do I need to muster thoughts of heaven
For you who colour my veins and creak in my bones?