The stray dogs gather at the city gates;
can they smell the ashes she cups in her hands?
Walking like a sentinel, a statue, a murderer,
a goddess, a beggar, a heartbreaker,
her face twisted ghoulishly like the leering gargoyles
of the graying towers.
We raise our heads and howl—you have hurt us!
We raise our palms and beg—let us go free!
But those hands hold more than ashes,
those eyes have seen more secrets than even
Icarus of the Labyrinth.
(if only we too could make wings
and fly into the sea)