Tuesday 17 January 2012
Tuesday 3 January 2012
Letters for Lovers
She is the sun that illuminates my day; I asked the moon to pour its light in my cup as I blanketed my sorrows in the salty warmth of her tears. I braved the most flaming furnace, exposed my heart to its heat, and melted the gold of my soul to mould a golden cup for her tears. Her tears to me are the liquid beauty of a soul too priceless to be bought by the wealthy nor held by the strongest. A simple state of being, where one is complete with their lover and unshaken by a desire for another
How is it that she knows, like a magician, the art of moulding tears into smile, fears into faith and words into hope bringing light to the very darkness of my pandemic? I have waited for the day when her rain will resurrect this African dream differed. I will wait till she and I are one, the beauty of knowing that I kept myself for her and she for me will be the joy of our embrace.
In a world decimated by HIV and AIDS it makes no sense having sex and lust glorified in movies and music, it’s like fuelling the very fire consuming you. This does not make sense but cemeteries, the belly of this beats filled with frozen souls 25 million strong and still he hungers for more, it does not make sense stroking the very monster devouring you.
Only in the arms of one can I be safe and on her face I will plant my kisses with the tenderness of a butterfly. Her eyes are windows to the soul of a world broken and scared by a monster too small to be seen with the naked eye, doomsday messages transmitted in infected bloodlines, one wound healed by time while another heel wounded by time so why should my identity be constructed by fragmented souls because of fleeting moments of senseless pleasures when I have her?
The shine in my star, the light in my sun, the breath of my song
It just so happens that her soul finds itself parallel to mine, like 25 million graves lined up on the graveyards of time side by side with all of them bearing the same scar, from the same killer, this does not make sense, but her words enlighten the narrow road only lovers should pursue!
In her every teardrop are immortal stories lived a thousand times over before kissing the barren land once so fruitful but now decimated by an Immune deficiency Syndrome we have Acquired. Parched is this land of infected souls, do open your flood gates upon this barren land i pray, that Africa may once more sing of dreams born by the fireside, that her children may carry dreams on their backs instead of orphans, hope on her shoulders instead of coffins, destiny in their blood instead of diseases.
The above image is a friend of mine that I photographed
and edited. the classic, elegant, flowing, dress, coupled with
the setting some how appeals to me as a good metaphor
and a visual representation of the above poem.
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