Under this roof, our hearts are pure; we don’t cloak for show,
We don’t tell: farce knows its place. We love; we are free.
You aren’t disremembered; we aren’t someone else’s fairytale,
We materialize with no precondition.
We’re unburdened with secrets, because those out the windows:
They are distant: they don’t exist.
We saunter over the oceans, proud.
Seasons don’t shake us; you slumber through them, in my solid arms.
The streetwalkers and flagrant prevaricators flourish in their habitats.
Let them persist there, and know their place.
You’ll never know: how the tides beckoned me,
Surging me to a frontier where darkness found a friend,
And I swam forever to see no horizon.
I couldn’t hear through the cumulating storm
And for a split second, your face disintegrated in the thickening fog.
I faltered in the soundless seas, open for poaching.
You’ll never savour: the acute stinging in my heart, till it burned.
Attesting to my own renouncement, where my tongue was severed,
And my standing flustered by another’s shame.
The anchor that held my ground disengaged,
And my weary hands, spent from abounding burdens:
They almost lost their hold on you in our quavering home.
But now we look on, proud.
Under this roof, our past has concluded its chapter; we are free.
As long as the streetwalkers and flagrant prevaricators remain in their place,
We persist now, on a road that’ll lead us far from here.
