He was sleeping when the red lights
washed over the garden, ink-black
shadows flew like crows across the green,
and the voice of the woman
called for him to leave and stand trial.
He walked away from his thatch hut
with nothing but the threadbare shirt
on his back, on his heart
and the voice of the woman
called for him to answer for crimes
in a language he did not understand.
As he went, he remembered the scent
of herbs and apples stewing in a broth,
and the voice of the woman
told him to forget.
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