Going up to see the destruction later
on. Lines and pipes. Crypts in your breast.
Where can I go to find your soul?
As the winds blow and the mists
roll in down the mountain I cry
for the soul that never found its way
up out of the crypts.
Through the yellowed grass
thistles, barbs
and piles of dead
wood—home to rodents—
I trudge, hauling on my back
some form of tribute to you,
to your ways, to your soul.
Sister who cried out at dawn
I hear you in my dreams calling
out—My children! O my children!—
I hear you. The purple beauty of the
mountains rolls down with the mist
as I climb to you. Yellow-orange monsters
have raped and ravished you, leaving you
scarred, gaping, unable, at last,
even to cry.
Annisa Tangreen