He's a wandering mendicant

Without soul or direction,

Lips heavy with stolen kisses

And eyes worn weary from holding secrets.

Traveller's boots lined with sand,

He strolls along the endless road –

Left foot, right foot, and grass for his pillow;

Picking out lost loves and old gods in the sky.

They say he will make love for alms

Whore, they cry, with glittering eyes,

And so he rubs magic from callused fingers,

The jar of hearts throbbing at his back.

Tonight, his soul flutters against my window,

A caged bird hungry for the stars,

It forgets how it once clung to my skin

And sang along to my silver anklet's chime.