Broken…

Afghanistan,

The land of warriors’ battlefield--

A historical ground for defeat and victory.

Every particle of its yellow soil

Is a recollection of enemies’ residue!

Brick, and mud houses yet breathe

The history of its destruction.

Gray wooden doors, hanging open

To welcome the handicapped resident.

Collapsed walls still reside,

To stand back as peace shelters.

In that playground, march the symbols of strength--

Those injured heavy crinkled tanks,

No more can they kill the enemies…

Have now become the toys of joyless children.

Children discover remnants of war,

Hidden in huge pile of dead junk.

My white haired, and wrinkled grandmother,

Tells me stories of horror movies of war...

She left her decades old mud-house--

All were lost, but her children!

No walls around, but open ground

No chairs, students with books under trees.

The ruined map of my homeland

Tells me stories of bleeding corners.

Reminisce of old folks beautifully

Traces the hostile beauty of war!

Today is yet another reflection

Of my land’s red painted history!