We could remember that moment
when we stood at the pinnacle, gazing
at each other’s eyes, in a platter of roses
right at the sight of the world
which even the bats, at noon, could
descry that smiles
that dominated over our faces.
Then we planted this words- “for better for worst,
Till death do us path”,
And the altar man, which was worst in arithmetic
binded us one, though rightly we are two
But the book that speaks of the man
that dwells in heaven, made the arithmetic so;
Now the plant we sown has emigrated to heaven,
being uprooted from the soil by our cold hands
And in solitude, i wonder,
if that day we were binded one never existed
For i thought our sight were painted in roses
but now I could descry the sun in the mist
of the moon and the star
which our vow we sown never speak of,
Which makes us three in our pinnacle
and i wonder- can the altar man bind we three in one?
For indeed, the arithmetic was never possible
As the holy book the altar man reads and acts from
speak not of such arithmetic,
so I ask- why should we pollute our vow being polygamous?
and now you sit on bliss
and watch our vow in tears
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