some day you will return it, this library book of you.

and we are no more than bones

and after a brief, velvet / pause, the forest / screams back.

Into my home, invited Anahita, divinity of waters / of giving me my daughters

Today, someone will ask me / to write about war. / And I can write about it / because I am alive now.

There are landscapes / woven only of suppression.