In our darkest hours, words thrust as daggers from our mouths,
Sharp and perilous as a bitter cold wind.
The birds sing, the church bells tremble, the cocks crow,
and our hearts shake in agony and laughter.
The curve of our breasts, entwined, is immeasurable,
unholy, no...just divine
and every breathe we take is our last,
No bitter choirs or regrets.
Our bodies move, in time with the ancient goddess,
as passion does, without sparrows, sun and darkness,
just light, cigarettes and wetness,
and the will to be unbroken.
Frail, gasping for breathe, tingling memories,
We scream our names, the only names that matter,
as god sings of wine and desire,
We moan, sigh and hold on...
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