XYZT, 93–103


Bavanat: Winter Wind Oh My Dying Sister


‘It’s the north wind, Druj!’ he shouts over its fierce howl. ‘She is…’ He searches for the right words. He yells a string of words in Farsi then stares at me with wide eyes, his face full of alarm. Struggling, he manages to lift his finger to where the path meets the foot of the valley and motions for me to carry on. Even though I am desperate to get back to the house and warm up, I find it difficult to continue battling against the wind, down the slope. I want to give up, to give in to it…