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.