Two young hearts at the gallery,
The one which gets easily hurt,
Weak and tender,
Just like mine.
Another, the martyred one,
Scrapes of weapon- oh it's actually the skin
Unafraid of death.
What unites them,
Is spectacular love in their union,
That found the two similar bodies
Rich enough to sweep in the slow bloom
A flowerbed even in the wrenching, wailing, blood stained battlefield.
A love of objections, shame and purity,
Beyond all religion and bond
Yes, I have witnessed this,
A dream with open eyes,
Of switching a kiss
On similar lips.