I often think in metaphors of war
Like Rwandan gun shots
And the unceasing ululations of our ancestors
We are sometimes mistaken for our actions
Like pacts of night-time comfort  
Made between black and white lovers
Or packs of rubbers and grief lost in a garden
We forgot that the fountain's hands had once been held
And gods had taught humans to dance on this patch of dirt
There was a time when your eyes looked so promising
That even I considered pondering momentarily
That something divine might exist in me
If only once more we could feel the stars speaking