All through deserts, mountains, farms, forests
villages, towns, cities, and outposts
we are burying our nation—
mourning thousands in graves
we are in graves
Words bend in blood
echo in myth—
Silence is not our custom
Out of great suffering
an ancient ritual is reborn:
to honour riders
whose departure shakes the
pillars of the tribe—
whose test of virtue
was the trial through fire
in rhythm with batons and bullets
I dance on my grave
fierce with head held high
dance myself back to life—
a nation older than first and last breath
I am the coffin
I am the mourner carrying the coffin
on shoulders heaving with grief
I am grief
My youth, I cannot bear your death
pretend I am at your wedding
bring a riderless horse
with hanging saddle
bring flowers and sweets
ululation, trumpet, cymbal, and drums
pour dust on my head
scratch my face
cut my braids
I dance with broken wings
Sleep, my love
my deflowered flower
plucked scorched branded
bereaved tulip
I dance a farewell dance
a war dance
a survival dance
The land convulses
The stars fall in mass graves
I am butchered
but not disgraced—
not forgotten—
I am in my body—
my last trench—
a country beyond fear
