It’s me, Cassandra.
And here is my city covered in embers.
And here is my staff, my prophet’s ribbons.
And here is my head full of uncertainty.
That’s right, I triumph.
The fire of my reason licks the sky.
Only the prophets that no one believes
Enjoy such shows;
Only those who got it wrong
So that everything happens as quickly
As if they hadn’t existed.
I remember now, distinctly those
who before me, stopped listening.
Their laughs choking.
Children running towards their mothers.
I didn’t even know their names.
And this my song written on the sands
No one bothered to sing it
I was right.
But then, nothing comes of it.
And here is my blouse charred by fire.
And here is my prophetess hardware.
And here is my stony face.
A face that didn’t know it could be beautiful.