This Eid, no lamb walks beside me
only this chest, split like Zagros stone,
veins scorched by the breath you left behind.

No fire feeds these ribs.
What burns here is older than flame
a hunger etched in salt and sinew.

Pomegranate splits in my grip
its flood outlasts both hands or gods,
a red that marks and does not fade.

If the blade must fall,
then let it bury deep
let bone crack with your name,
let the ash remember.

Under the crescent’s cold eye,
I speak no thrones of smoke.
Only your hand
rising from fire,
rough with warmth,
proof that I endured.