Cherubim turn swords,

cast flaming fig leaves

on a cursed ground.

With bruised heels

we labour

among the bitten,

festering fruits of our ignorance,

making thorns and thistles

of our crowns.

In the sweat of our faces,

a pheromonic resonance.

In our dusty hearts,

skinclad, in cleavage,

we hope to live forever,

flesh closed upon itself,

conceiving sorrow.

Our trees are pleasant to the sight

of gold and onyxstone

and every beast and fowl has its name

except for our nakedness.

In a garden of talking serpents,

cool days and lying Gods,

I betray you to the voice

and hide.