Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
Jana Hunter
The earth has no skin
And it's weather will take us
When our skeletons (children) do
Rise up as smugglers (southerners)
Our souls as widows (witches) cry
Like babies left left in a forest (fortress)
And our mothers forget but
Have no memory