says the child, as airplanes distort the face of the sky. “I used to rest my head,” his sister says, “upon his kind arms. I don’t remember how we found the bones of the murdered one who was my Daddy who was defending us on this mirage-earth, asking a shadow; how did this begin?”
The ash women cry, “These are the portents of those lost in the darkness of the prisons.” One of them calls for help, “I didn’t find him. He left without a helmet, and nothing distinguishes him but his heart. He was like my country too great to bear. They returned many corpses but not his.” “These are the marks of a faded morning,” says the woman who, still tidying the bed blankets, dreams he may come in one longing night, lights a match, holds back grief.
“These are the memories of past years,” says one who has just come. “To whom has my age been sold as wood fire for a fire that has raged for twenty-three years without ending? These are mirrors for my hollow life.”
Birds cry as they follow an Apache squadron, “Where are the windows? Where are the windows? We want air!”