By N J Delmas
They left me on the mountain top.
Offerings laid at my frozen feet.
A butterfly in a transparent case, coloured wings pierced through with pins.
The preservation of the beauty extenuates the loss.
My teeth will tell my age, my stomach my last meal.
My blood still holds the drugs they gave me on the trial.
My clothes will tell a story of how my people lived.
A child persevered in ice, a traveller through time.
You look at me and wonder.
‘How could they have sacrificed their love?’
The answer to that question lies within the power of gods.