In the garden, we drank cherry wine—  
it was summer, but already the world was burning
You said love could outlast history,  
could outlast the soil we buried our dead in
But even then, your hand trembled in mine,  
as if holding on was a kind of politics  

You, my lover, spoke of revolution  
like it was a season that would never end
And yet, beneath the vines, beneath the sun,  
I could see the rot setting in—  
even sweetness grows bitter in time,  
even love turns sour with too much hope

What remains is the taste of fruit on my tongue,  
as the world smolders, as you fade  
into the distance of what we cannot save