Kabarsthan

As the mangy fingers of fascism grew out of the copper earth,

Bats hanging like nocturnal fruits from the spaghetti-hands of the banyan took notice;

Icecaps felt in their crystal bones a slow tremor—a long hum of death;

Forests sensed the incoming flight of excavators ready to skin it alive and scattering it to faraway cities in various shapes and sizes;

Free voices suffused in the air were defeated by the orchestra of fascism's smog and C02 molecules;

Airplanes and souls of the dead saw the ozone withering away slowly but surely and flashing a ghastly smile at them;

As fascism grew,

The world as we know it started preparing

For its departure

Leaving only echoes and songs and vestiges of its glorious existence

Where is it going, though?

I'll search my nearest Kabarsthan.

And when I do, I'd be wary of my careless footsteps.

After all, she'd be resting there with all her children—

Leopards, bears, humans, freedom, forests, mountains, rivers—,

And it wouldn't be okay to disturb their slumber.

Shah Tazrian Ashrafi is a freshman studying International Relations.