Up to the platform of surrender you go
Your crowning beauty (not cold metal that would have kissed your forehead)
Falls to the stone floor, and you know you are reborn
Your naked scalp feels vulnerable, exposed to the convent's dusty breeze for the first time
(Is this how your baby felt when the physician ripped him from your womb?)
You know the destruction you've left in the wake of your hegira, coming to this place of stale peace
But you also recollect the way you were auctioned off the highest bidder, a man with more medals than courage
The sheer horror in their gaze as they eyed your pregnant stomach
And you know that no matter how much they plead you will never go back
Better a life of false piety than one of false devotion
Better to pretend that Kiyaoki can fade away from your mind, eventually, like smoke
(The abbess won't tell you that he died with your name on his lips)