For me Kuyili, the old river spits up blood and tired fire,
sends brown waves of love to wash my charred feet. Stars
pause humming, a land falls silent as my final
bones prepare
to explode. Birds and animals gather around my sweet
scattered name, name their sweetest songs after me,
Kuyili. My tattered battle cry they will carry to brave
mothers, passing villages weeping smoke.
There are no prayers given or received, no other
miracle sought. None were said
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