We came to the village after the Turks. Everyone was dead,
except a little girl who came out from the shadows
with a fibrous hole gaping where her head and body
joined; she cried Don't hit me, Baba, then hobbled away and fell
down in a little heap. And then, I think, she died. Death's
little silver cock was stuck between
her mother's legs; she sat on the tip of a saw bayonet. And a pregnant
woman was bent over a sheepfold, the hilt
of Hell's sword sticking up from where the fetus was, into the air. And
others were pinned by arms and legs to the ground like insects
mounted by an insane collector. We went after the Turks
and killed them all. The sweet salt
blood of the child ran out and out and on and on
all the way to Damascus. All this happened
as I have said. And the next day was Friday.
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