if your touch is as graceful as your dance, then please come closer there is hell beneath my skin, and your hands, cold as rivers in mourning, might soothe the fire they carved the borders of nations onto our bodies etched in silence, in bone you and i, mapped without consent and still, the skin speaks even when the mouths forget let them raise their brows in pride, those who harvest the figs with callous hands, blind to the sun, deaf to the world they trample but you, you feel and in that, we are free.