Her face was like snow, she lay with her wooden body on my grandfather's couch, four women washing her with rosewater. They combed her hair with the coquettishness of beautiful Layla, my childhood that I know, the song of the cliff and the flute, the voice of the night in my chest, a woman stuffing her mouth with a white handkerchief and tying it around her waist, her legs, and her chest. Every time I looked at her, I choked as dirt seeped into my nose and mouth. I coughed, I cried as I carried her coffin, the men behind me carrying torches, and the women slit their chests to shame the angel of death. We reached the palm tree of prayer. I took an axe and struck the ground three times, and placed Layla in front of me. I performed the funeral prayer. I did not raise my head when the snake appeared with the third takbir and descended with her to the ground, embraced the beautiful Layla and ate her flesh. I heard her scream before she disappeared forever. The snake never came out after that. Every time it got hungry, we threw a new dead person into the belly of the earth. We began to give birth to children for that reason