The greatest of tears
Are still yet to be spilled.
For our cries
Have created the waves
We send forth to other lands.
We have not created the lake
For both of us.
To be seated at its edge,
To see the sunset that is destined for the pledge,
For the devotion,
To bleed upon us, each ray of the coming morning
Where we fall away
To our own home, in oblivion.
We are lovers
Among the wreckage of this world’s flesh,
Where consumption, makes death,
And people’s movements,
What lakes to create for us to be seated upon its edge!
Torn at the ends, like frail portraits of each other’s
We know what we are, though time has stopped
Upon the time I kiss your mouth,
And sugar is what we reap from the lake,
Not the salt of toil.