lidia is not a woman of flesh and bone,
she is a wound that breathes,
a weave of broken bodies
refusing to die.

nor are you, Hannibal
merely a face carved in stone.
the echo of your command still hovers above,
and your palm still strokes the alps—
clay keeps writing your name,
as if the world were meant
to bear your crown forever.

my poems burn
along with their shelter
beneath the wings of airplanes
called by no one.

in lidia’s eyes,
millions of souls press together.
the silk road within me
struggles simply to exist.

the muzzle washes away its rusted traces,
and our mouths drown under snowfall—
without crosses,
without names.

damascus
is no longer only thirst,
but a burn
that bites into me
down to the bone.