On the brink of a winter fog
Assyrian women mourners
Shrouded in black
Fling sudden white
Hands to sky

Dancing in their inner squares

Soft, hard and liquid contours
Gather their pale feet
Wailing on the inside
Beating their breasts to
Silent drums…

Drums, which later, will
Beat loud and wild, in the empty
Room of my solitude

I will then go join them
In their lamenting

Beat with them my blues and
Find my un-chalked
Squares, in the green night