La-la (Is)land

Here they stand
The thorny lovers sleeping
In the weary sand.
Their traces just like limbs
Severed and broken
Littering battlefields
Of sleepless mines
Awoken.

Here on their dusty island
Blinded lovers are a-leaping
Hand knit with hand.
Their fingers clutched
Saintly the branches
Spat out by palmtrees
In their stormy dances
Shaking the coconuts tanned.

It’s here that they reprimand
The lovers not bent, not weeping,
With hopes alight all young and bland
For saving in large bowls the rains of tears
For giving birth to deep and salty pools
For cradling away the ancient fears.
They lie lids open, oh, the soggy fools!
[With their hearts playing in a marching band.]