You flinch at my name.
Two thousand years and I am outcaste
in your home—mine too before the epic
fire that still smoulders in sunken
corners of this grand city—beneath
Vaigai’s barren rock bed—river once
flooded and fertile, proud as I was and you are,
now dirt and shame trickling through dry sand, tears
from discarded women. You and I, delicate one, sisters
branded into each other’s missing breast—you draw
away as if burnt. As if I, renegade, committed
unspeakable crimes, scorched your beautiful city
into ashes and dead dust before my anger could
be calmed, my hatred appeased.
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