The libation which I pour into wounds,
lies in great minds, and in your crafty tongue
and the slick slaughter we may bask among,
to inspirit the desires that soothe.
The libation which we use to cover
the plain candour of our intimacy,
the mitigation of militancy,
adorning and adoring one-another.
Are wounds placeted by this libation?
That are chasmic, as I am captured in
your gaze, and held firmly in this nation.
As I fall into you, the divine sin,
whilst wails persist, the final station.
Scars cannot heal so clothe me with new skin.