Mirror Image

We are not cowering in a tenebrous underground passage
sucking dust. The distant echo we hear is our mother tongue.

A bullet patterns the locked door; the clay beneath our feet
has formed an armour.

Sister, these shades will badge us up, the emperor does have
new clothes. We will lay white on our subfusc bodies.

Our lips are painted, an earring strokes our cheek and a smaller
bag dangles from a friendly hold.

Feel the comfort touch of the cornerstone placed beneath you.
Glass will not shatter unless we expect it to.

Taste the trace of shampooed hair and savour the waft of verdant freedom.
They may give it a name but it does not make it so.