You died heartbroken, the sudden and total catastrophe
of a heart that could not bear to be colonized.
Fragments are everywhere: shrapnel, of course.
But also time-worn amulets of carnelian and amber.
The clicking of bead against bead: prayer
overcomes the howling of a tear in the viscera
of history itself. The shrieking of a thousand
prophets and djinn, wailing for a land that was holy once,
is stilled by the silence of the grave untended.
Unlamented, rains wash your rest and bring ease,
where your children’s children, exiles, cannot reach.
No one called you “sido”—
Ah! But poetry can span the worlds.
Yes, we are a people of poetry.
Poets can embrace the dead.