It burrows under my tongue and streams out of my nose as I exhale. It follows me to bed. I wash in a basin of water, soaping my face, my neck and my hands, all impregnated with the fetid smell of death. Outside it is raining. Why do the gods shed so many tears on our world? Are they weeping for me? Why don’t these torrents from the skies wash away our suffering and our impurity? I drop down onto my bed. The halting breath of the wind is like the whisper of ghosts as they rise up and recede. Could it be Min with Tang roaring with laughter? Were they shut in the same cell? Did they hold hands as they watched their lives flowing like a river into the abyss? Had they kissed before I met Min? Had they made love? When she was free she probably wouldn’t have given herself to him, but on their last night did they not couple, cheek to cheek, forehead to forehead, wound to wound as the guard looked on? She took him into her belly and into her soul. He penetrated her on his knees, in penitence, he held her to him with all his might… his seed flowed, their blood mingled.
