We stood,
as women before us have stood,

looking back at our burning cities,
watching the smoke
rise from our empty homes.

Such death. The smell
of justice, drifting
on the burnt wind.

It was quiet then. And cold.

We heard their cries, the caged birds
clawing at their perches, our daughters
naked in the hungry mob.

We saw it all,
saw the fire fall like rain,

saw our tears
leave stiff, white veins
down our bodies,

saw the brine crawl
through salt-cracked skin.

Now, turning in the restless night,
we dream we stand there still,
alone on the hill’s black belly.

We, the forgotten,
whose names
were swallowed by God.