Streets etched on the earth with a sharp sword,

narrow, no meeting points.

Traces of blood, life leaking away.

Pouring from the memory of an ancient land,

mould enters the walls.

Decay hidden from god.

And the son to be sacrificed, ready.

Instead of the old princes of darkness,

cats remain with their long tails.

The shadow of fountains,

the serrated dagger,

the steel that probes within.

And the dialect surviving from a people,

incense,

the staircase.

Every door waits for a neck

to be bowed in submission.

© translated by Ruth Christie