was
a nameless number,
attached
to a black burial bag.
His name
had been
buried
long before.
———
No spring burst forth
to wash his body
with sacred water,
before
the whisper of the soil
called him
to rise
again.
———
They cannot be counted;
neither a Dhū l-Ḥijja
in the barren desert of Minā,
nor a blood-soaked spring
in Tiananmen Square.
Everywhere, a dusty winter,
of which they said
from its sky
mercy
would fall.
———
An inevitable fate,
repeating itself in waiting,
for promised hands
that have
a thousand times
laid you
into the earth.
———
No one
intends to help;
from the scattered fragments of your soul
they construct narratives,
to bring
their own game
to an end.
———
of distant lands,
where for years
each morning
mines left in the ground
hurl the shattered bodies of passersby
into the air.
But this time
the words speak
of a nearer land,
the source
of all these stories.
———
Arsalan — Wiesbaden
January 16, 2026
