Halabja

I look below to the grass

the green has worn off, and in its place death

stares me in the eye

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When the Persian Leopard begins to cry

out, Where have my friends gone?

I weep with him.

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My heart is burning,

the Mountains say to me,

What must I do?

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The Goats come to my feet, heads

drawn, and eyes glazed over with tears,

there is nothing left for them here

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It is only when the Moon turns her watchful eye

out to the Nergiz sleeping below,

that I heave a sigh and close my eyes

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