I know they sing of you
In baritones on the parade grounds,
In shrieks over cheering crowds
And sounds of frenzied guitar-fingers.
The Times of (Anything) print daily prayers to you
Even if they sell themselves to the highest bidder,
And old men stand on raised platforms
And give you to young men for the small price of death.
But really, my soul would rather be bound
Inside my body,
And my body inside hers,
Inhaling her softness,
Swimming in her smells,
Shaped by her caresses,
Stabbed by her eyes.
Truly oh freedom, not you I want,
All I want, is to belong to her.