Six chairs, three on each side

The head sits at the farthest right

Away from the danger,

the cardboard of protestors, ‘Arms’ of the protectors.

It will not be black,But mahogony.

Not futhur explained.

The lovers sit on tables facing each other,

Or the adjacent ones,

Or were they not lovers at all?

Just bodies who have seen the other’s cellulite

Discovering a certain desire of hunger.

The children you ask?

Which children?

The glass panels of the school are still broken.

Same colours have same meanings, they say

Father’s anger will be the ketchup

The lover’s blue the water

Their inevitable end, the meat in the middle.

Gorged and stared at by everyone,

ravished into flames.

Returning to the table each night,

as ghastly as visiting the scenes of a fatal execution : of love, happiness and immortality.

No romanticising the table they say

But what about the countless coffee stains?

From the nights that remain unnamed,

Chambers of the heart that mingled and seperated

again and again and again.

It's marmalade!

No its whipped cream.

The table is solitude,

Unasked freedom that is dreamt upon on wretched nights.

It is the place you paint your nails a bright red colour

Remembering the wounds,

The endless war.