mon amour You say, halve your brain, keep the cubicles in the left; valley of flowers in the right, let there not be a crevasse, we need the green papers. Ah, how can I forget the grocer, people, who hold our roof, our flesh, still in the lower case? I’ve built a bridge bringing the grass to my work; dragging the chair sometimes to the dreams. And you took flight to the mountain tops. You tell me, times are like living with cannibals; I wish, like pre-historic times, you could sometimes let loose the beast into me. When I slide my hands into yours, I wish you'd twist it sharp and break me; but my hands get stamped by your warmth; I remain glued to you. The final betrayal awaits us in your passionate work; in my creative cooking. © June Nandy