Lovers by Marc Chagall

When it is over

This is what they’ll say.

You.

Ripped out of your dying mother’s womb,

slung into the abyss and told, climb out if you will.

And you did.

Me.

Ripped out of my dying mother’s heart,

cast into silence and told, keep the secrets lest they kill.

And I did.

Us.

Ripped out of our dying dreams and hopes,

thrown into each other’s well and told, drink your fill.

And we did.