The quiet aching in my heart begins when we were shown the door
out of Eden, our wandering has led us to this dust to dust
this desert where gardens are only a mirage
where tyrants rule and children drown
in their parents blood in Nishapour
… by Ilkhan or Tamerlane gifted us
with pain so great his
daughter Goharshad
tried to make
amends
by
giving
us Herat but like
a hot spot for heat
seeking missiles on poor
Afghanistan bombs have rained and reigned for
over twenty years, what are we fighting over in the end…
will all the gas and lithium and Heroin give us back lost paradise
will every orphan, amputee and refugee buy us a front row seat in
hell; when I think of Afghanistan I think of shy children smiling at me
not the CIA’s devil spawn, the Taliban and El Qeda, Afhanistan not that
blowing up Bamian Buddha says it all and yet hope rebuilds it piece by
piece even now I write this so never say never, like weeds there is no killing us
