Mestawe

Displaced thoughts in displaced earth I bury my pages deep, smoothing soil Over details too personal to disclose. Letters germinate, ink Seeps into dirt and feeds my passions. By the time the flower blooms, I am dead. Snow, settle quietly on violet roses. Thorns, protect my cause, Cut those who come too close With the bare bones of truth. Quod me nutrit, me destruit. Words killed me; now they lightly drop From petals quivering in an icy breeze. My dead secrets, for all to hear.

The wind may howl in silent streams The earth may sleep in distant dreams But you, my dove, are here in peace We love together, rest in ease When seas pull back the endless tide And creatures small do run and hide We stand together, hand in hand Watch water ravage broken lands Fires may spill from open wounds Our baby turns within the womb When ash rains down in flaking heat His heart will beat, and beat, and beat. The moon will sink below the skies Our bones beneath the earth will lie Our line survives, both strong and true For you loved me, and I loved you.