Whispers Through the Years
In dockside pubs, the words were masks, vada for seeing, bona for praise — Polari danced between the lips of men whose glances could not stay.
Behind the Iron Curtain’s hush,
desire was painted in pathology;
love wore the colors of caution,
spoke in sighs, in silent theology.
A violet tucked into a lapel,
a handkerchief folded just so —
meaning stitched in seams and petals,
a secret only the knowing would know.
Then came the screens,
and with them, the algorithm’s eye;
we bent our vowels, broke our words,
sent love in emoji skies.
Now, in the onion’s hidden layers,
we archive what cannot be erased —
whispers carried through encrypted tunnels, a chorus no censor can replace.
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