I woke with a terrified start and wept.

I didn’t weep for Shams as I’ve wept for you and for this woman.

I didn’t weep for my father as I’ve wept for you and for her.

I didn’t weep for my mother as I’ve wept for you and for her.

I didn’t weep for my grandmother as I’ve wept for you and for her.

I left my house barefoot and ran to your grave.

I’m standing here. The night covers me, the March rain washes me, and I tell you, no, this isn’t how stories end. No.

I stand. The rain forms ropes that extend from the sky to the ground. My feet sink into the mud. I stretch out my hand, I grasp the ropes of rain, and I walk and walk and walk

^* Al-Roumi: The Roman.