I will trace the Jhelum Across
Your back with my fingers
In barely discernible darkness
It will form a paisley
Drawn from the memory of
An imagined Kashmir
No language spoken by
Man or Gods shall be
Uttered that night
Words will be melded,
Sentences molded to form
A new language of love
The ink, a fine powdered
Amethyst, shall dry as
We write its grammar
The quill tips, fashioned
From old bones, shall
Burn in its blaze
The room will be
Full of scorch marks
In barely discernible darkness
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