| Poetry |
The Last Rite
When the lares slither in the palace hall like the water-snakes,
When the Lord’s finger points toward us,
Let us not forget the last rite.
The violence has congealed to a Delft palate, our mouths
The revolution yawns open like the valley, a green grave,
Where I could be a white flower, a boat,
Forests singing between my wooden bones.
by Elnaz Rezaei Ghalechi
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