Ektara, in the key of rebirth and revolution. Farmer flies on the back of the white horse to the beginning of our lifelines. I have forgotten to age. From the wound in the throat, I fish an old pumpkin, horsehair and bells. The lower octaves are stitched to the world below: black snakes on the red earth, communist manifestos and moods of indigo. The upper octaves are stitched to the world above: palms full of cowrie shells, misty mountains and the origins of love. I walk to the middle of the world without my face. I am just a thief in the rain. When two suns fall to sea, white horses come from the waves as mirror images, with our unborn children on their backs, signifying rupture in the upper and lower realms. We stand on one leg at the end of paradise, shrouded in gunpowder, poppy and equilibrium. We have always said to our two suns and our two lovers: I will wake before you rise so I can worship you. Our eyes open on the underside of the sea, beneath the flames. Farmer is biting into flesh, and sea, and the melody of the changing earth, in an old language only understood in skin and instrument. Our memories, our names and our borders burn with the sea. Between two suns, the ektara synchronises with the dead. We pray to the faces of our unborn children. Our love for them is sublime. The ektara is blue. The road is red.