On the caved shoulders of the Zagros
a war‑goddess leaves her broken shadow—
as if evening itself
has forgotten its way home.
 
In the waters of Hormuz
her last breath rises as poisoned foam;
the tide gathers it, lets it drift like a pale,
unclaimed moon.
 
Blue fish move through the dusk—
touching the silvered wake
of a ship going under.
 
Beirut’s night—in Inanna’s quiet eyes
a star breaks, falls inward,
becoming only an <em>Inara</em> of light
no one will heed.
 
Tehran’s smoke thickens; Astarte’s warm shadow
quivers there—a scintillating warmth in a city learning
                        the language of ash.
 
Anahita’s blue radiance sways in the deep sea,
slow as a prayer
that has lost its listener.
 
Above, fire‑birds cross the sky—white salt kissing their wings
like the last snow
                        of a vanished winter.
 
The war‑goddess collapses into deadly froth—
her final form
scattered on the tide
like a manuscript the sea refuses to finish.
 
And over the water
a long, silent, dark spectral phantom—
the kind that touches everything,
yet leaves no trace
except the stench of salt mixed with gunpowder
on the wind.