The river ran with her blood, not the dead sun’s,
and the blood would never stop from her mashed womb.

art by Janusz Jurek

After the rape, the bamboos didn’t resume
their moaning music.
After the rape, the rapist walked to the river
to wash his genitals.

The raped lay in the slush, flowers scattered around her,
the sparrows silent in the bamboos.
The sun slowly went down behind the gloomy hills,
setting fire to her pubis and the river.

The rapist surely noted the silence of the dusk
hooting once or twice to mimic a scream.
The echoes stayed in the hills, the wind went dumb
and the skies turned deaf as the silent river.

When the raped rose up and gathered her clothes
and walked to the river to wash her wound,
the chirps of a hundred sparrows suddenly filled the air
and the creaking bamboos cried out with the roar of the wind.

The river ran with her blood, not the dead sun’s,
and the blood would never stop from her mashed womb.

Later, as she limped home to an unlit hearth
and a crying baby and a dying mother,
the blood streamed along her thighs and wet her feet.

The rapist followed her lazily, biting into a fruit,
his eyes set on the trail of blood till THE END.

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