There’s no call for long strings of black beads,bangles in green glass threaded on the wrist
and the conch turned out like inverted ribs,
paired with dead blood red worn on the sleeve;
put up on a clear docile display, as if
love and its vows are things to exhibit!
come without the brocades, really there’s no need
to bring in the trays of rituals, green gifts
to proclaim your love, or would that be ownership?
you can walk straight up, nothing’s better on knees
and I will walk with you the whole round trip
beyond the sacred fire, even into the splits
of time and darkness and the light of release
marked with just the vermilion of your spirit.