In the blackened silence do I learn to see,
The stigma marked on sleepless foreheads deep,
A brimming cup of life pours down on me,
We drift through velvet in the night’s dark sweep.
Betrayed at dawn by weeping, golden light,
In holy-painted fields we lost our way,
And angels tread the frost on plains of white,
Where fate’s dim shimmer rises into day.
Exile entwines us, binding chain to chain,
In strangers’ temples we are the cornerstone,
Unworthy still of mercy for our pain—
Tears are the gift of pure and brave alone.
At last, within each other’s solitude,
At last, with blood, we seal our interlude.