in her eyes are cities rising, falling; they rise once more with kings and queens, with democracy and change for the better, with heartbeats once unheard beating out sonatinas

her voice is a battlefield all its own: cries of man and beast and god, all hungry for war, but the aftertaste is bitter like olive bark and sea salt

she smells of blood when she laughs and rain when she cries (her screams feel like thunder)

her face shows what has been, but the soot on her palms hides what could be; only the fates can see it clearly

*oracles were not made for gods to love, but to keep them in their place