Our fingers intertwine and lock together
like strands of vine woven into trellis
and when they press one to the other,
flesh to flesh, the fruit they bear
is heart shaped and its juice is ruby,
like blood oozing down
the trembling face of the world,
like the miraculous tears of a Madonna
worshipped in the heat of the Alhambran sky.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem