Whose Language Will I Speak?

Allow me a little time to rest the clamour
Upon the contours of your form
The mirror gaze within your reply
Will flash and fall and rise and build response
Verbal shouts and gutteral groans
In my room we both are right
In hotels we are wrong
Where will we die?
Where will we scatter?
Face down, lovers bodies, Russian grasses, Russian ice
Before that I will paint you
I will bury you in colour, on canvas
While you tell me of your youth
Of chasing birds and pretending you could fly
The clamour is merely collection of one stands
A collection of songs
Trapped within my head, resting on your form
And the guardian angles are sculpted into the architecture
And I can see beautiful shade below your stomach
As your leg is raised and it is an arch
One to hold and make prayers from
As I bow down and taste the flesh of man
What will happen to us?
Where will you die?
You who was born to the poet and the siren
Where will I go?
Me, the hunter who has yet to return from the hills
Who will I caress when you have gone?
Whose form will I calm my head's clamour upon?
Whose language will I speak?