This body is not my temple.
Ransacked — the pillaging came and went,
and here I am in the dust, grieving
the child that was lost.
Yet still I remember her:
she hides in me, in the lines of my hands—
I can still hold the skin she lived in, once.
She is no phoenix: she cannot return.
But I will rebuild her, Hagia Sophia,
with holy wisdom, and the Ottomans,
when they greet me once again,
will know they cannot touch this marble,
these walls: we are glacial cold.
I am no temple: but I will become as noble,
as strong — as holy — as pure.
I will become again.