When a grave digger writes poems for a gardener  
It creates an unintentional wound
the scientists call love.
This is soft like a song running barefoot through a whorehouse,
And unintelligible like the sermon of a prophet in the middle of apocalypse.
The first symptom is a frenzied denial, blazing and melting like the last sun, rubbing the hands in a sublime strand
The claustrophobic sighs on the glances shared follows next.
The darkness burning the heads will find a bright imposter, and this is the final story,since there is no going back.
The grave digger wants to be a leave stalk,
And the gardener a coffin bearer.
They pray to a weaver bird ,
for bell shaped domes
the angry rains can't destroy.
They speak in riddles, that looks like the curves of a traveller's feet on a barren land.
They burn incense sticks and flowers, a secret code, a needle that cuts a fish bone in gods throat.
They both know they are going to be a tragedy that is going be an identity like a birthmark.
Because, 
For the gardener, a broken nest 
is still a home.
For the grave digger, breathlessness is still a life.

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