Blessed are those fingers
to write, even though fatigue drops the guillotine.
Blessed are those ears,
That swallow indiscriminately at the slightest
Of a forlorn relation barking dissent.
That hold hands and waltz
And remind you of something you couldn’t have.
whose wraiths tickle your nose
and make you wary of Kalashnikovs
Byzantine shields over ignorance,
Brimming with the lamp of Rhodes,
And so does the silhouette.