I buried my sisterin a summer storm.Warm muddrowned my body.She dreamed a century,lived two decades—spoke the height of pines,her face sunlit like their tips.She took the street like a marebreaking into open field,her mane lashing the air—unveiled. No to hijab! !نه به حجابWhen her fist closed,the men drew near.Far as freedom,a bullet took her—round and copperas the last moon she slept under.Eyes followed herall the way to the grave.Eyes wept. Mouths wailed.Crowds gathered to witness.In each palm,a strand of her hair.