This land — our land — is not a land for lovers
Like us. Forget our passion under covers,
My outcast arm around you, and even this:
Our holding hands in public, my furtive kiss.

The rains are here, the sudden summer showers.
They fairly fall on both our favorite flowers.
Your roses and my hanging jasmines drown
With neither love nor hatred raining down.

I watch the blind, impartial rain for hours.
I watch your home across this street of ours.
Your empty room, the roof of red, the line
For clothes, the flower bed. A home like mine.

No gods or men can tell our homes apart.
And yet they’ve slit your throat and crushed my heart.