A bed too small to hold two lives, and yet

The one did not betray

The other did not flee

A common secret holds three


Across a forest, a sullen path

To rescue a cracked mold,

Muddled the letters on the palimpsest:

“What was built shall not pass.”


A scorched land, a sky of lead

A twisted palm over the days’ sand,

Unforgiving and humble to its last 

The wood wherefrom was carved the bed.