Four Weeks : Pomegranates & Blood
Gun shot sounds break the night,
easily mistaken for fireworks;
markers of an unfolding devastation,
the destruction of identities and hope.
An unforgiving tale, of unrelenting tragedy.
Afghanistan.
The bodies are slumped into wheelbarrows,
blood spills into the sewage,
snarling sirens and piercing screams,
bombs rip bodies apart-women, men, children.
This is normal, in the land of the Pamirs.
And so they return to the checkpoint,
With ruined dreams clutched, in tired resignation.
Waiting, undeterred, by the terror warning.
She moves in stealth, with her daughter,
the tiny palm breathless in her firm grip.
Under the darkness, and a neighbor’s mercy,
escaping the dreaded knock on the door,
memory of rotting flesh and hung corpses,
the taste of metal that still lingers.
Ghosts of the past race up to her.
She stiffens. The cold fear does not let go.
She will not be fast enough.
Yet she runs, hides, waits
and runs again.
There is defiance on the streets today
“Freedom” and “democracy” they shout
Unstoppable and unwilling to kneel
Daring the baton shocks, beatings, floggings and firing
A bold gamble against the new rulers.
Trajectory of this force is unknowable
Yet today belonged to them.
Power to the people.
Nothing is more beautiful
than that which is disappearing,
this is my Kabul today.
A vanishing memory - the autumn gardens
the ripe pomegranates the smoke filled bukharis.
I wake up to their beauty, their comfort
and their unwavering accusation.
For embarking on this arrogant path
only to abandon.
It is a shame, this politeness
laced with a hint of pride
with which we closed the gates.
Carving this earth, with unexploded bombs.
