A woman
Abandoned by everyone
Is gunpowder, stuck in a weapon’s throat.
In the mountain’s chest.
How can I write poems
With so much molten stone
In my throat?
Beloved homeland,
Wild, beautiful woman,
We did not deserve this war!
Your portion should have been
Caravans loaded with radiance and silk,
The echo of the Rubab.
In the mountains,
The snows of Salang,
The fragrant waters of the Helmand,
And strong, kind men
Who would give you children,
Love and wisdom pouring like light from their eyes.
This is not what I deserved.
Longing
Loneliness
Exile.
My poems should have smelled like pine and silverberry
Ringing with the jingle of bracelets during the Attan[1]
Tasting like milk from sheep who roam freely over green pastures.
One day they will grow green again,
All these dreams
We bury underground.
[1]Attan is a Pashtun word which refers to national dance of Afghanistan.